


One of the Last

by WastelandSpectre (ClockworksApprentice)



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, Future Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Slow Burn, War, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworksApprentice/pseuds/WastelandSpectre
Summary: The world as Dabria knew it had ended long ago. Eventually, it was its end that led to the birth of Middle Earth and she always watched as battles and wars ranged on between the new races, the new people, the new world. She, along with the other two last reapers left, vowed to never get evolved… Until one day, she finds herself wandering through the thick trees of Mirkwood Forest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on FF:  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11700468/1/One-of-The-Last

She had seen many things throughout her years. She had seen the Victorian Age come and go, bringing many ages to come. She had seen the invention of computers, electricity, among many other things. She watched the humans progress. The invention of contact lenses led to reapers getting their own as glasses had become a hindrance in battle. Eventually, the lenses were replaced with just a simple gel that repaired eye sight- one single use of the gel had a reaper set for the rest of their days as a shinigami. Though, many older shinigami like herself preferred to keep the glasses in a safe spot; usually for the memories they held. She saw mankind go to the stars. She learned the advanced healing of men. She saw many things she never even dreamed of.

She had lived to see even the twenty-second century of Earth and beyond… And she saw when mankind came to an end. She watched the fires and the wars tear apart the human race until there were none left, bringing the war between her kind and the demons. People she had loved, people she had cared for... She had seen so much death, fitting for someone with the name that meant  _angel of death._  She fought hard with her fellow shinigami for just over a thousand years until the war was partly won in a draw. Both sides of the war had lost thousands, nearly a million, and to each his own.

She was among the few shinigami that survived; herself, Undertaker, Grell, William, a female reaper named Audrey and a young reaper named Evan were the only other ones to survive. They were few in numbers, but took it in stride, knowing that the world no longer needed death gods. Retirement came easily to them and for another few hundred years, there was nothing but lonely peace and much needed mourning. Wandering through the lands with no purpose other than just...relaxing.

Then came the second Ice Age. By then, only the experienced reapers were alive- herself, Undertaker, Grell and William. Everything was frozen and it became hard to survive. She clearly remembered just how cold it was. Shivering on the edge of death. Tired without any energy. Sick at times. There came a time where she thought if the demons had survived and if it would have been much easier if they were. Then they could have came and killed her where she stood. She wouldn't have fought them.

William didn't make it, another name added to the list of the dead.

It was took a long time, longer than she thought she would ever live, before finally there were signs of life again. Plants grew. Animals evolved. New life began, bringing hope with it. For a short time, she even considered herself happy. She split off from the surviving shinigami, exploring this practically new planet. She kept in touch, of course, but her visits became less and less until eventually Undertaker didn't expect her to visit at all.

Then came something new. He called himself Eru and he named the world Middle Earth. He took a liking to them and blessed them, taking away their chances of dying of illness and their skin hardened like marble, only able to be pierced by their very weapons. She was still unsure if it was a blessing or a curse, but thanked Eru for she knew he had the best intentions in mind. She watched from afar with the other shinigami as Eru created the Valar, the Maia, Istrari, dwarves, the elves and men. They watched as orcs were made. She listened and learned the languages that were created- they were a breath of fresh air in her mouth when she spoke them. They just watched the world begin completely anew with a new name and new species.

For the most part, they remained hidden and only a handful even knew of their existence. Among this group was a wizard named Gandalf. She became friends with him- he was interesting and his abilities were fascinating. He was just as fascinated with her- her past, her kind. She was eager to make a new friend; millions of years in isolation made her desperate for new company that didn't think themselves superior. Though even she kept secrets from him- secrets about herself and of her kind. He knew she was older than Middle Earth and of its species, but he never knew the exact number of her age. Nor did he know the last two personally; he only knew of their existence through brief mentions of them from her.

Gandalf had even asked her to help with the wars, the darkness that was coming across Middle Earth like a disease. She refused. She was just a retired reaper- she still had her deathly skill, but she didn't bother to use it among more war.

She was not a warrior. Not anymore.

She was just Dabria: one of the last ancient shinigami.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The looking into the friendship between Gandalf and Dabria

Dabria's small little cottage sat alone in the forests, away from wandering eyes. The homey little place seemed friendly on the outside with its many windows. Firm, sturdy wood built its foundation. A quaint little garden was growing beside it, blooming in beauty despite the dark woods surrounding the area by the home. It looked almost out of place or like a mirage. Something that looked nice, but by no means actually belonged there.

The inside, however, weaved a different tale as it made the cottage perfect for its location. Swords, axes, and various other weapons – one looking particularly like hedge shears – lined against one of the walls, all of them varied in size and weight. The only thing the weapons shared was the metal from which they were forged. Many went unused, but carefully dusted, serving as reminders for ones forgotten and of a war that will never leave her mind. Many of them, shears aside, were designed after common blades, fit for the war they took place in and despite being dusted, their metal was too stained by blood to truly be properly cleaned. Two of the blades, however, stood out against the rest; each of them resembled traditional scythes. One was clearly carefully cared for more so than the others, its metal gleamed with a green metallic tint in the streams of sunlight that filtered in through the windows and its handle was carefully molded with skull carvings. The other was less cared for, or perhaps simply more used. It had a twin design on its handle, yet it was a strong red that matched the gleam of dried blood on the blade's sharp curves.

Dabria stood just outside the cottage, dark cloak stained with dried blood draping her shoulders. A fresh stack of firewood was easily tucked under one of her arms. She hesitated a moment, before looking over her shoulder toward the line of trees surrounding her. She dipped her head in appreciation and thankfulness that they understood her need for warmth. She had spent many of nights tucked away in their branches and they knew more than anything, or anyone, that there was not enough firewood in the world that could warm her skin. Her flesh felt too much like a corpse resting against their bark. Still, they were more than happy to try. A part of her strongly believed that they would be offended if she didn't take them up on their offer to use their forgotten dead as firewood.

She was hesitant to use the word friendship – she could only name three individuals offhand that she ever considered friends – but she liked to believe that after spending so much time on this soil that her friendship was strong and unbreakable between the trees. There were nights when she loved to listen to the song of the trees drifting through the wind as their branches grazed against her windows. The trees often called  _One Forgotten_ for her haunting eyes that spoke of too much sorrow and lost. For the languages she spoke that they knew not. For her immorality that marked her as one of the oldest of Arda, if not  _the_ oldest. She would spend time within their branches, sometimes in a peaceful silence that they knew too well. Yet other times, she would talk to them, gracefully and fluently, she would tell them of a world that time forgot. She spoke of a devastating war of incredible feats, a war that tore her loved ones away, a war between powerful beings.  _'It was a war of legends,'_  she would explain with saddened eyes and a heavy heart,  _'and perhaps legends are best to just stay at that.'_

The Orcs knew her as the  _Soul Stealer._ One who stole the souls away from any whom she fights. An immortal foe incapable of dying from any battle wound and the only one capable of wielded the  _Soul Cleaver,_ capable of sucking out one's soul, destroying it in the most painful way possible. A graze against its blade was equal to a week of some of their worst tortures. It grows in power for every life taken and as it grows heavier with each soul it rips out, it takes a strong warrior to merely lift it. Nevertheless to actually swing it with force so great it could destroy trees. In the darker ones' legends, she was everything that they strive to be – fear, power, strength. She was equally feared as she was respected and while the Orcs had forgot that she was as real as they and not merely a legend to be told of to rile up armies before battle, the land she was said to have claimed remained undisturbed by their kind. For the most part. Once every few centuries, a young warg would appear on the edge of what she claimed as her current 'home.' An offering of sorts, she was sure, but she didn't quite know what to make of it nor what the true meaning behind such an offering was. She couldn't lie that the meat was quite tender and a warg's fur made the best of winter coats.

The Elves left offerings for her as well, a tad more frequently. But it wasn't an offering so much as it was a celebration of her and what she stood for among the elves. During such celebration was the only time she would venture close to one of the elven settlements just so she could hear their songs binding with the wind and feel the emotions that poured over into it. She remembered when there were more elflings and how some of them, during these celebrations, were convinced that by leaving fruits on the edge of the settlement as a gift to her, the Valor would bless them as they have her and offer them luck and strength in future battles. It was nice during these times – she wouldn't say she was selfish by any means, but the way the elves cherished her did bring a bit of a boost to her ego. She was fond of the name they gave her.  _Hinnorwen,_ wielder of  _Thirisdes,_  a weapon no elf, man, dwarf or even orc could make nor wield. It was a gift from the Valar, most variations of the legend claimed, and with it, she was a beautiful, feminine, deadly force that tore through her enemies as if they were nothing. A woman, though most legends tread carefully over her gender, that could handle her own in battle even if she didn't wield a weapon.

There were some variations that stated that it was her beauty and strength in battle, the perfect balance between the two, without a weapon in her hand that made her worthy of  _Thirisdes_. With the gift, she was said to tear through enemies as if they were nothing. A being that only killed those with ill-intent, driven to rid Arda of its darkness. Whose eyes sparked with a flame that only came from battle and that it was so bright one could spot it in the darkest of nights. An immortal whose powers were parallel to that of the Valar. Some spoke as if, instead of merely being blessed or chosen by the Valar, she was part of the Valar herself. A child of Mandos. Few stated that she was something else entirely – a being unheard of on Arda. She was so beloved and well-respected among the elves that it pained them to think of her as anything but good and alive, despite the fact that there were very few who  _truly_  believed there was truth behind the myth.

The dwarves were an interesting bunch that stood by their belief in her, or at the very least, of her weapon. The  _Gáld_ _I_ _ngeitum,_ they dubbed her, the  _Bright Smith._ Her weapon was not one gifted to her – though such a gift wouldn't be taken lightly – in their legends, she was the creator of the  _Hrethcarach._ The  _Shadowslayer._ A blade with metal so bright, so strong, that it tore through the very shadows of Mordor. Its light was said to be only be matched by the one in  _Gáld_ _I_ _ngeitum_ _'s_  eyes and its craftsmanship was said to be so great that no dwarf could ever hope to match it (yet, they stress to  _try_ ). Despite having little contact with any of the dwarves in her entire time of their existence, she made a lasting impression that was still told among the small ones of their kind. Her blade was often the focus of a majority of the legends as they say no metal could hope to compare to its strength nor its beauty. It was strong enough to cut through a tree as in one swift, smooth move and graceful enough that it looked as if it danced upon air. They still spoke of how light it looked, yet that it was so heavy no dwarf could ever hope to even nudge it. But her eyes also make their way into her myths and legends – as a Shinigami, she always had known the impression her eyes could have.  _G_ _áld_ _I_ _ngeitum_ was said to have eyes so bright and so gold that it could make the King spiral into madness and it was said her teeth had a sharp curve to them to match a dragon's. Few legends spoke of her as if she were a dragon in disguise herself. She was forever thankful that that particular aspect of the legend had died off, mostly because when they spoke of her as a dragon, Smaug often came up in the same breath. She'd rather not have herself compared to such a selfish, low creature. It was often that of Men that spoke of that variation of the legend when word of it left the mountain and into Laketown, but they hardly took it seriously. Men, it seemed, had no use for legends and myths when they forced themselves to face only the true brutal nature of reality.

Legend as she may be, she was still merely that. A legend. A whisper in the wind. No one truly believed in her existence while others did, but knew in their hearts they'd never get the pleasure of merely even  _seeing_  her. Thus she lived in peace and solitude. She liked it that way. Once, long ago when Arda was still new, she ventured the world with curious eyes, killing anything that even reminded her of demons (orcs, goblins and trolls fit nicely under that list). But now…. Now, she was old. She still looked as she did when she became a reaper, but she was tired. Tired of the adventures. Tired of life. Tired of watching everyone she befriended die of old age or of wounds she couldn't heal. She just wanted to live in peace. Besides, she wasn't sure where she would go if she did leave. Undertaker and Grell's locations were a mystery to her after they lost touch. She hated to admit that she missed them; Undertaker's laugh and Grell's flamboyant personality were something that she had found comfort in.

Sighing slightly, she continued to fix her tea inside the small kitchen area of her cottage.  _I'm fine right where I am,_  she thought, though the words did little to convince her. Stirring the liquid inside the small tea cup, she stared off into space. Was she ever going to gain courage to adventure again?  _No. I'm much better where I am. Safe from the heartbreak that adventure would surely bring._  She was taken from her musings from a knock at the door, tea still in hand, she answered the door to see a familiar face; it was the one person who still visited her.

Gandalf looked at the woman in front of him with a kind smile, having to look down to see her face as she was much shorter than he. She looked no more than perhaps twenty, but he knew better than to be fooled by her beautiful youthful appearance. Age, wisdom and death shined in her oddly colored yellow-green eyes and if he looked close enough, he could see the hints of pointed teeth in her mouth. Her long dark brown hair reached just to the middle of her back, a strange metal clip that resembled wings was in her hair, pulling a few strands of it back out of her eyes. Unlike most women, she wore black leather trousers and a simple white shirt that was covered with a dark leather vest. Her black cloak was hanging limply on a hook by the door.

She didn't look any different from the day he met her.

* * *

_In the future, the dwarves would know him as Tharkun. The elves would call him Mithrandir. In time, all of Middle Earth would know him as Gandalf. For now, however, a part of him was still Olorin. He was still fresh to the wonders around him, despite his time as a Maia there was still much for him to learn. Much for him to teach others. He glanced briefly toward his hands, flexing them in this new form, suppressing a shiver from his spine at the sensation. Or perhaps it was actually from excitement. Excitement for adventure. For quests. For showing others just what the staff he held could really do._

_H_ _e had been a part of this world, this form, for only a month. Barely even time to adjust, but he knew he must adjust quickly if he wished to help with the appending darkness._

_A rustle of the trees grabbed his attention and his body tensed, ready for action as he turned to face what he assumed to be an attacker. Yet as he stared out into the woods, he saw only a pair of dazzling, shining eyes staring back at him. Eyes that seemed to look right him. Eyes that_ _shook his very soul. That spoke of trouble, of age, of wisdom, that he doubted any Valar, or even Eru himself, could compare. Eyes that… looked at him curiously as they emerged from the darkness._

_He was mildly surprised when it wasn't an elf, or even a man, that walked into the light, but a woman of Men. Though saying she was a woman of Men didn't sit right. Aside from her eyes, she walked with grace, but it was too fluid and wide to be an elf. She was too thin to be a dwarf (and lacked any facial hair, even her eyebrows seemed smooth)._ _Much taller than an average woman of Men. There was something almost eerie and otherworldly about the sharp fierceness in her eyes, almost glowing from a light within the iris itself._

_T_ _hough her clothes themselves were a bit off-putting, making him slightly uncomfortable at the unusual shape of her trousers. The leather vest she wore was usually made for a man rather than a woman, but still hinted at the dips of her waist and curve of her chest. The trousers tucked into sturdy boots. The slightly puff sleeved shirt she wore was torn at the edges and bore stains of red splatters in random places._

" _Not a man, not an elf, certainly not a dwarf," she mused to herself, her head titled in curiosity as she circled around him, "I can feel something within you…. Valar, maybe, but Maia is most likely… But Maia do not have a form like yours, I believe…"_

_S_ _he hummed a bit and he tensed slightly. He was supposed to be powerful. Proud. Strong. Yet this unknown stranger, this_ _woman_ _made him feel… intimidated. Circling him as if he was prey while she was the predator. She had such a deadly air bout her that he knew that if he were to start a fight, even if it'd be a close fight, that he may not win. A risk he didn't wish to take._

_"_ _Who are you," the question whispered into the wind, but her eyes hardened, narrowing at him slightly._

" _You are in my home or did you forget your manners?"  
_

_Her voice was bitter, but sounded more like a mother scolding than a child than actually offensive. He briefly gazed past her to see the small cottage resting behind her in the woods, looking rather out of place in the darkness._ _He inwardly winced at his rudeness, knowing that he was lucky she was even being civil with him. The long weapon- though he was unsure as to what it was from the dark lighting, just that its tip gleamed with a light of its own- strapped onto her back looked as if it could do damage. Though he wasn't sure how he felt about a woman wielding such a weapon, an internal voice screamed at him not to say anything about it otherwise he would know exactly how she could handle such a blade._

" _I am Olorin," he spoke as firmly as he could, his head high, "Are you friend or foe?"_

_She looked at him in amusement, a ghost of smile on her lips before she dipped her head in greeting, putting a fist over her heart,_

" _I wouldn't say I am a friend, but I am no foe. I am Dabria."_

* * *

_It was just over fifty years before they saw each other again. Having considering themselves friends, he kept in contact with her through letters- even if she rarely replied to them. But seeing her again made his eyes twinkle as he gave her a smile, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. Yet as he gazed upon her, he saw no difference between the woman in front of him and the one met those years ago. He briefly thought of how it was possible that she was apparently immortal when she was no elf before shaking that thought out of his head. She was no one of Men. She was no elf. She was no dwarf. But perhaps whatever she was simply had a longer life span. For a brief moment, he even wondered if she was of the Valar itself._

" _Olorin," she greeted formally, with a dip of her head and a first across her heart, "_ _I must say, seeing you again is a bit of a surprise. I thoroughly enjoyed your letters, my friend."_

_The words were a bit foreign to her tongue, but it released a weight off her chest. Aside from Adrian (once known as Undertaker) and Grell, she didn't have friends. To actually call someone, a non-shinigami at that, a friend was a new sensation. She just hoped this one didn't die like all the others._

" _It is Gandalf now, old friend," his eyes twinkled in mirth as she made an exaggerated scoff._

" _Gandalf the Grey, ah yes, how could I forget," her voice was laced with amusement, almost waving off the correction of his name, "I've just made a fresh pot of tea. Do you care to join me?"_

_Gandalf nodded for a moment,_

" _Tea sound delightful, my dear."  
_

_He dipped his head in thankfulness, offering her his arm to lead her back to her cottage. She let out a small merry laugh and he wondered if the flash of pointed canines he saw was real or a trick of the light. But she took his arm either way, a small grin that didn't reach her eyes stretched on her lips._

* * *

" _My kind are forgotten," Dabria once explained to him, her voice low and laced with so much sadness, "Forgotten to time itself, I'm afraid. By now our kind have even faded from legends and myths to become nothing. At times I wonder if I, myself, am that as well. Nothing."  
_

_She refused to meet his gaze as she focused on the tea in her hands. A strangled cry muffled in her throat and his heart clenched for his dear friend. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out and patted her hand with his own in a way only a brotherly figure could._

" _You are much more than nothing," Gandalf said earnestly, "You are a wonder to this world. A gift. One day you may even meet another of your kind that treasures you like the jewel you are."_

_He was surprised, though he dared not show it, when she let out a booming laugh. Enough to make the walls of her cottage shake. Her tea trembled in her hands and splashed about. It took a moment before she was able to calm herself, still chuckling slightly as she looked up at Gandalf. Her eyes were dark but gleamed with an unnatural light._

" _Gandalf, my friend, I find that to be unlikely," despite the grin on her face, her voice was sad and dead, "My kind… There are only three of us left, Gandalf. Myself and two others. None of which I would bare children to even if I were able."_

_He hummed a bit at her answer, a small eyebrow raising in question at what she was implying- infertility was no joke among a dying race and he knew that it must be killing her more than she let on._

_"And just what is your kind," Gandalf pressed gently._

_This time he knew he was not imaging the fangs that poked out from her upper lip. The dangerous air about her. The darkening of her aura as a warning. The tenseness in her shoulders._

" _I am a shinigami. Do with that name as you will for I know it holds no meaning anymore," her eyes became hooded as she reminisced, almost as if she were reciting something that someone once told her,"We are an immortal race. Quicker than any rabbit. More dangerous than any wolf. Quieter than any shadow. We are protectors in our own right, but reap what others sow."_

_There was a mysticism in her words at the last phrase. A hidden, underlying meaning that he wasn't sure he understood. He wasn't sure if he wanted to understand._

" _We are immortal," she finally continued, her grip on the tea cup tightening enough to almost break it, "We do not die from a normal battle wound. We do not die from age nor from grief. We are cursed to this world like Death itself."_

_He just sat there quietly, processing the information with a critical mind. A being that could die from a wound. Nor from age. Nor from grief. It was hard for him to understand. Yet the steel in her eyes and the shine of her blade had already let him know long ago that she was a force to be reckoned. A force that could possibly tilt the scales in favor of what's best for Middle Earth if given the chance. He sat, waiting for her to continue yet she never did. She stayed silent as the dead. Staring into her tea with a much more solemn expression._

" _How does a kind like yours die off," Gandalf questioned gently, causing her lips to thin._

_"There are beings that you not of, my friend. Beings that I wouldn't wish for anyone, even an orc nor any other dark force, to face. Beings that trend this land in the form of man with an evil within. Beings that whisper in the ears of Men, dwarf, and elf alike to wander into the dark. Beings that, in their true form, are more larger and more dangerous than any Belorg. Beings that I know as… demons."_

_She whispered the word with so much spite and hate that it froze Gandalf in the core. The tea mug crumbled in her hands, its shards piercing her skin yet drawing little to no blood. She didn't show any signs of discomfort even with a few shards that still lingered in her flesh._

_"I refuse to speak of this subject more," her voice low, "If you'll excuse me."_

_Like that, she disappeared from the cottage with her weapon strapped to her back. He sat and waited for her return, idly drinking at his tea even when he heard the orcs' screams from a distance._

* * *

Gandalf, like any of her friends, knew her as Dabria- not to say that he didn't know of her other names, just that he knew how she loved to be called by her true name. She wasn't the mythical  _Hinnorwen_ nor  _Gáld_ _I_ _ngeitum_ _._ She wasn't the  _Soul Stealer._ She wasn't even  _One Forgotten._  She was just Dabria. An old soul in a youthful body tired of life, but craving company.

"Olorin," she greeted with a small smile, careful to not show too much of her teeth, "Please do come in, old friend. Tea?"

"Tea would be pleasant," Gandalf thanked her, "But truly, my dear, you must call me Gandalf."

"Pish-posh," she waved him off once more as she stepped aside to let him enter, "Gandalf you are  _out there._  But  _in here,_  you are Olorin, my friend. Not a great and powerful wizard. Not a Maia. Nor a previous-Maia. Not an Istari. I do not care for fancy titles nor names. You are and always will be  _Olorin."_

A ghost of a smile tugged on his lips as he took a seat on one of her few comfortable chairs. His staff was laid against the chair, but was easily in reach. His eyes briefly went to the weapons on the wall. He knew little of her history- or her kind- and even less about the war she vaguely spoke of. But the weapons on the wall told a story of their own. Mysterious metal so deeply stained by blood that it could never be washed, but carefully dusted as to honor them. Yet two scythes stood out the most, shining as if they were new, but Gandalf felt that so much as looking at them for too long could get a cut from the blade.

Dabria brought him a cup of warm tea and sat down across from him. She noticed the dark look in his eyes and grew curious.

"I don't believe this visit is for company. What troubles you?"

He stared off for a moment; he briefly wondered if he shouldn't speak of it to her. She was ancient, older than the land itself. Truly she had seen enough darkness to last a thousand lives. However, there was a small hint of hope that she may help with the growing troubles. Gandalf finally spoke, his voice laced with worry.

"There is darkness growing across the land. I fear it will soon spread across Middle Earth if not stopped."

Dabria's lips formed a tight line as she stared into the cup of tea in her hands. She knew of what he spoke of- what and _who_. She had felt the darkness, even did her best to put stop to it  _eons_ ago. But this darkness was unlike the darkness she had faced before- this paled in comparison to the war. The tea inside her cup seemed to swirl as she recalled that particular day.

* * *

_The skies were dark, hiding all the stars with clouds that were stained red from the light of the bloody moon. It was a darkness that reached across the land, to every corner of the planet. The humans were long dead; they have been for such a long time. Even the petty wars of humans were not this dark. The depression, dark aura of the deaths and the demons still lingered in the air, nearly suffocating her._

_So much bloodshed had happened. Some of the battles had lasted days if not months before there was a victor. Her own battles with each demon lasted at least a month. It was worth it for she killed the demon in the end. Few escaped the tip of her blade. Other shinigami were not so lucky._

_Everywhere she looked, it was empty. Everything was void of life. She felt heavy like gravity had just increased. Or perhaps it was the burdened weight of so many deaths on her shoulders. A few abandoned shinigami scythes laid on the ground without their owners. Other shinigami weapons, weapons that were created specifically for the war, were starting to get buried in the dirt; the blades were of no use anymore._

_Shinigami hearts did not beat. Still, she nearly swore that her heart was beating in her chest, quickly, creating the pounding she could hear in her ears. A part of her felt numb; the reality of everything settling inside of her. She bit back a cry of despair; there were so many that died. The younger reapers were dead, experienced reapers were dead. The only good thing was that they were sure to bring down a few demons with them. It didn't change their own fate._

_So much death, she thought sorrowfully, so much… They're all gone… The demons had left, the war ending in a draw. Her fists clenched tightly around her red scythe; it was stained with the blood of the demons. As long as I live, I shall make sure they die, she swore. If she saw any of those demons again, she would kill them. They did not deserve to live when so many good shinigami died- her almost husband was included on the list of the dead._

_Tears started to run down her dirty cheeks. How many shinigami were left? Five, at most. Five. Out of just above a million shinigami, only five survived while nearly a hundred of those demons had survived. Her body started to shake in anger, only calming when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Adrian, better known as Undertaker. His eyes bore deep into hers, shining with the same sorrow hers did. His white hair was dark with dirt and blood. His clothes, like hers, were torn, showing new scars and wounds. Her lip trembled and she dropped her weapon as she wept into the chest of her dear friend._

* * *

She looked away from the tea and back toward Gandalf. He was watching her, curiosity shined in his eyes and it was only then did she realize the tears that were starting to form in her eyes. She blinked them away as she straightened her back, her shoulders tensing as she corrected her posture with dignity.

"I have seen true darkness, Gandalf. This is minor compared to it."

Gandalf mused over her words briefly. He expected such an answer; her eyes alone told him of the death she had seen. She sipped at her tea as he answered her.

"And what if this darkness grows, my friend? Do you not wish to partake in putting an end to it?"

Dabria brought the cup down from her lips and set it down on a nearby end table. She looked at Gandalf, her eyes hardened slightly, but swirls of sincere apologies showed as well.  _An interesting combination,_  Gandalf thought. Dabria let out a long frustrated sigh.

"I understand what you are trying at. I truly wish I could help, but with whatever you are planning, you tricky child, comes friends and allies that I would grow close to, only to see them die at the hands of the enemy. I cannot put myself through that again…. Elves fade, Gandalf, when their friends and loved ones die, they too die in more ways than one…. I may not be an elf, but just as them, I feel my fae tearing away with every death. I told you once that my kind does die from grief, but it is a torture of its own nonetheless."

She shook her head with a heavy sigh, her hands trembling slightly. Gandalf set his tea down and gripped his staff. The hope that she may use her abilities to take down the growing evil faded, but not disappeared. He frowned slightly as he stood up, Dabria looking at him apologetically. A part of him understood- she didn't wish to see any more deaths of those she cared for. She was ancient, but everyone had their limits. He gave her a small nod, signaling that there were no hard feelings.

"I understand. Though you know staying here in solitude won't serve you well."

Dabria tried her best to not make a face at his words. She was perfectly fine where she was.

"It has for the past thousand or so years," Dabria said dismissively, "It will work for another thousand… I wish you luck with whatever your plans are, Gandalf. Try not to die."

She gave Gandalf a small, weak smile. His eyes twinkled in amusement,

"I have no plans for death, my old friend…"

Dabria watched him leave.  _Death is rarely in anyone's plans._


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun rewriting this particular chapter to put more emphasis on the close relationship between Dabria and Gandalf - not romantically, mind you, but more like a family bond. And I also liked to put a bit more emphasis on Dabria's own loneliness without Grell and Undertaker, but she has a reason to be where she is and to not venture too far, a reason that will become more clear later. But she's pretty torn about her want to be around others and to not leave her current location. The whistle mentioned will be making appearances in later chapters, but it's important to remember that the whistle is only for emergencies and that what pitch a Shinagami can hear, a demon can also hear.

_'Solitude won't serve you well.'_ Gandalf's word spun around in her mind for days after he left, spinning poison into her before she finally dragged herself out of her cottage and into the woods, her scythe was secured to her back. Its metal gleamed in the warm rays of sun that filtered through the leaves of the trees, longing to reap souls like it did long ago. The call to continue what she was created to do itched under skin enough for her jaw to lock in place. Her scythe, and a part of herself, lusted for the souls of the damned and to pass judgment. It was a lust that part of her hoped to satisfy. Her fingers trembled at her sides as she gracefully sped through the woods, appearing nothing more than a quick shadow to the naked eye.

Dabria knew it was near impossible for her to find what she was truly searching for. After days of wandering through the woods, she concluded that she'd never find them. She couldn't sense them anywhere nor could she hear their laughter in the breeze that fluttered through the trees. She bit her bottom lip, her canines piercing the skin enough for it to bleed as she reached into a small pack at her side to pull out a small device. A simple whistle whose metallic covering matched her blade – with one simple blow, its sound would resonate through the land at a pitch finally tuned to the ears of a Shinigami… But it wasn't an emergency and guilt clawed at her for thinking her loneliness was deemed as such. She shoved the whistle back into its place and closed her eyes. She could still picture them perfectly in her memory, and for now that was enough. Her brother in battle with his hair as red as his enemy's blood and a charm that admittedly grew on her over the years. Her mentor's hair the color of fine silver with a laugh so boisterous it shook the very ground. They were truly scattered into the various directions of the wind, letting it sweep them away far from each other, or perhaps they were already ten feet under the very dirt she stood on. She could blow the whistle, only for no one to appear to her aide. Her heart shook at the thought.  _Solitude serves me fine._

The faint sound of dark speak reached her ears and a gleam entered her eyes.  _Finally, a fight._ Her canines were exposed in a predatory smirk before she took off toward the sound. It wasn't long before she found them. There were about twelve orcs, cursing and mumbling about, causing her scowl to deepen. She reached behind her and unattached her scythe from its strap, the metal glinting slightly. The only good thing about this trip, it seemed, was that she was going to kill a few disgusting creatures. She jumped down from her hiding place, revealing herself to the orcs. Almost instantly, she was surrounded as they walked about in a circle around her, taunting her, not seeing her as a threat despite the scythe she held.

"What's this," one growled, "A human whore… Delicious meat…"

"Good for other things too," one added, a short gruff noise that she assumed was laughter soon followed.

The orc looked at her suggestively, eying her up and down. Her grip on her scythe tightened as she looked at them darkly, her lip curling in disgust. She didn't waver, if anything their words only fueled her as fury rose in her chest. The one who spoke was the one she turned to first.

"You have three seconds to take back your previous statement. Should you do so, I'll see that you have a less painful death."

He laughed at her, not threatened by her at all. Her eyes swept through the other orcs, unlike the first, the others began to grow uneasy, not liking the dark aura that seeped from her.  _Bloodlust_ , they recognized, and the harder they looked at her, the more recognizable she became and they realized their mistake of taunting her too late. She was smaller than they imagined her to be, but there was no mistaking the large blade she held so easily nor the shine in otherworldly irises. In one swift movement, she ran past the first orc, swinging her blade high and decapitating him with ease. It happened in the blink of an eye, but the others stood their ground despite knowing that they began a fight that they would not be able to win.

" _I am Soul Stealer,"_ she spoke, the dark speak foreign on her tongue, her voice echoing darkly, her teeth gaining a sadistic shine to them, bringing attention to their pointed tips,  _"Wielder of the Soul Cleave_ _r_ _, y_ _ou shall pay for your disrespect."_

Her blade swung through the air, cutting through the orcs as if they were nothing. To her, they  _were_  nothing. They were like pesky roaches that she killed with ease only for more to show up. Her aura pulsed with darkness as the sadistic grin on her face grew. The blood lust fueled her actions, craving to spill their bodies, to pass judgment of their damned souls. Heads rolled, body parts were cut off, and she emerged uninjured surrounded by their dead bodies. She wasn't sweating, but she reeked of the blood that was splattered and stained into her clothes. Some of it was smeared across her cheeks and mattered within her hair. A stray drop of it dripped down to her lips from her cheeks and an almost serpentine tongue from her mouth rolled over it. Her blade was dripping with the thick liquid.

A part of her felt fulfilled. Satisfied. She looked over the bodies with distaste.

"Tsk," she scowled, "Absolutely vile pests…"

It took a few moments for the gleam in her eyes to dull as she gathered herself to realize her actions. She looked down at her clothes and skin with disgust. The smell that touched her nose made her wish she could throw up, but reignited the hope of finding her brother and mentor knowing that there was hardly anything that could take them down. But if she were to continue the search, the least she could do was bathe. If she were to find Grell in this state, he would never let it go and considering they both had a few more thousand years on them, at the very least, she would not let that happen.

She danced through the shadows until she found herself back at her cottage. It wasn't home, but it was security. Familiarity. She took her time approaching the entrance, her scythe placed firmly on her back and the hood of her cloak lowered. There was no need for her to hide here when no one ever dared to get close to the surrounding area. She could feel the pulse of a few carefully placed wards the closer she got to her door - wards that were meant to keep uninvited guests from finding her place of sanctuary and helping themselves to the weapons scattered upon her walls. Weapons that would either give them an upper hand against her if they were demons, or weapons that would steal the intruder's soul from their very body and she would arrive to find bodies scattering her floor. Neither were appealing ideas.

She nearly came to a stand still when she passed through her growing garden. A willow tree draped over to create shade over two wooden crosses that were surrounded by rising daisies. She took in a deep breathe, unneeded but it helped her gather her thoughts, and carefully removed her cloak and her scythe, planting its tip deep into the ground before she approached the willow tree. She fell to her knees to tend to the weeds threatening the graves, humming a tune lost to time. Her heart filled with sorrow and grew heavy in her chest when her fingers grazed against the smallest cross. Gandalf once asked her about the two crosses, but she offered no explanation. These two graves were to be her secret and she would guard them with all she had.

She stood up, a sad smile gracing her lips, and she placed one hand on each grave, dipping her head low as she whispered words only meant for the souls lost. Feeling a bit lighter, though even more lonely before, she finally took her cloak and her weapon to disappear into the cottage.

* * *

Her hair was still slightly soaked, dripping and clinging to her head, the metallic wing clip she wore in it was tangled in its knots. There were faint dark marks under her eyes- dried blood from the orcs that she didn't clean off yet. Her scythe was now clean and leaning against the wall. She took a deep breath, taking in the smell of the tea. A knocking from the door took her out of her thoughts. She smiled faintly, knowing it could only be one person.  _Gandalf._ She opened the door and motioned for the wizard to come in.

Gandalf took in her appearance and raised an eyebrow; she ignored his look as usual. He stepped in and took a seat, setting down his staff and clasping his hands over a nearby cup of warm tea. Dabria held back a  _'no that's my tea',_ huffing slightly as her metaphorically feathers ruffled. With a disgruntled expression, she begrudgingly fixed herself another cup and then took a seat across from him.

"Another visit," Dabria asked curiously, "I'm honored."

"I heard you were wandering about," Gandalf chimed, "Seemed rather unusual behavior and I felt the need to make sure you were not sick."

Dabria gave him a dry smile, careful to not show much of her teeth,

"Ah, there are times I forget of your wit," she mused slightly to herself before continuing, "If you must know, I was… searching for someone. Two someones in fact. Friends of mine that I haven't seen in quite a long while…"

She sighed deeply and hung her head as she absently stirred her tea with a fingertip. Gandalf absently noted that her fingernail was pointed slightly to a sharp tip and briefly wondered if their sharpened tips served a purpose beyond intimidation.

"These friends of yours," Gandalf prodded curiously and carefully, "I apologize, I must have forgotten their names?"

He knew about the two she spoke of, even if she didn't speak of them often. All he truly knew about them, aside from the fact that they were both the same kind as she, was that they were older than her. One only by a slight number difference, yet the other, she had claimed, was ancient even to her. A few times, she even referred to the oldest one as 'a mad hatter.' As to what that truly meant, he wasn't sure. He wasn't even entirely sure if it was said in jest or not. Perhaps it made her the one person that spoke in more riddles than he.

Dabria gave him a sly look, her lips turning into a small smirk as she sipped at her tea. She saw right through his charade, cutting past his smoke and mirrors and his silver tongue. He had a way of dancing with words and he was so respected that many hardly noticed. She was not many.

"Ah," she tsk'ed slightly, "You have to be more cunning than that, Olorin. They are the only ones I have left and I do not give their names so freely. Though I must admit, I haven't spoken to either of them in quite some time. I would say my search has been for not, but I managed to use my time to slaughter a small orc pack."

She sighed deeply at that, her gaze softening. Her fingertip continued to barely break the surface of her tea, swirling around in it absently. She was barely even able to note the faint warm sensation in her fingertip from the scorching liquid. Her eyes seemed to be clouded with thoughts and memories and it was moment such as this that reminded Gandalf of just how old she was and how much it wore on her. Just as she saw him, he could see right through her as well at times.

"I did plan on going to search once more," Dabria's voice grew softer, "But my place is here."

"That would be debatable, my dear," Gandalf spoke cheerfully, "You sell yourself short if you truly believe that. You are destined for great things, Dabria, as Hinnorwen, Gáld Ingeitum _,_ Soul Stealer, or even as the One Forgotten."

Dabria scoffed lightly at his words, her voice turning a bit dark as she speaks, "You say that as if you believe I have a heart of gold, destined to do good things for the better of Middle Earth, all of which I am not."

Gandalf hummed at her words, ignoring the dark tone in her voice and the way her eyes gleamed in the dim lighting. Beyond her words and beneath that cold front she was so insistent on using, he could see someone that fit her words. Someone that was destined to do great good, whether or not she saw it herself. He felt it deep in his chest that one day, she would save Middle Earth from a threat that he could not currently fathom.

"Perhaps," He spoke slowly, "But your destiny is what you make of it. But I do believe that staying here by yourself will merely rot you into the very ground."

"Ha," Dabria let out a short, curt cackle, "Do not forget, child, that I do not die as you nor any other mortal on Middle Earth does."

She cut her laughter short when she saw the darker meaning in his eyes as he spoke his next words, "I was not speaking of your physical body."

Dabria tensed, sitting up straighter in her seat as she sipped at her tea, debating on how she could move around the subject he brought to the table. She did not like speaking of her fae, specifically of the weakness it brought her.

"We do not die from age nor grief, cursed to the world like Death itself," She repeated the words she once said to him softly.

"But you said yourself that grief and a broken fae was a torture of its own," Gandalf added and she refused to meet his gaze for fear of the concern and worry his eyes held.

She swallowed thickly and settled for staring into her tea. The world seemed to slip out of her grasp – she despise those words so, but it did not make them any less true. Her fae was worn and broken with scars that would never fade. It was more than just a torture of its own, it was pain that ran so deep that it would still run through her veins even if she tore them open.

"Olorin," Dabria's eyes shut tightly and her grip on the tea cup was tight enough that it broke the cup in two – Gandalf noted the way it left her hand uninjured. "Please..."

Gandalf's expression softened and he wondered why he must always poke at her, trying to figure out the secrets she held, when it was very clear that she was much more than a puzzle, and more than simply a champion for Middle Earth. She was his closest, dearest friend. He stood up from his spot and walked toward her slowly. The closer he got to her, the easier it was to see the tears threatening to spill down the dried blood on her cheek. It was the closest he ever saw her come to crying and he decided that he hated himself for bringing that expression to her face.

He took her in his arms in a comforting hug and held her tightly. He hated how she felt so tense and lifeless in his grasp. It made his own heart ache for her, but he merely held her tighter until finally, she relaxed into his grasp and her slender arms slipped around him to return the gesture, burying her face into his robes. This, he decided, had gone on long enough.

"I will not spend a single moment of our time together pestering you with anymore questions," He swore to her, "You are destined for great things, but you are also my dearest friend, Dabria. It was foolish of me to take that for granted."

She released him from the hug to pull away with a tight-lipped smile,  _oh Olorin, the questions do not bother me so. It is their answers that cause me so much grief._


	4. Chapter Three

The orcs kept her occupied. It settled the bloodlust that had awoken when she slayed the first group of orcs along Mirkwood's edges – the first true kill she had in a few decades. It kept her busy. She didn't have to return to her cottage to face a meddling wizard waiting patiently on her porch, smoking that pipe of his. He kept his word and asked no more questions nor pressed for previous answers. But the more time she spent on her porch or at her table, drinking tea as the smoke of his pipe danced through the air, the more she wished to speak. The harder it became to give up, to loosen the tight bonds that held her secrets in place. But speaking of the past would do her no good. Drinking her troubles away was not an option, alcohol did little to nothing to her and mead was too bitter for her decaying taste buds.

So there she was on the edge of Mirkwood forest, day after day, with her weapon held loosely in a fist at her side. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see her garden under the willow tree and two crosses looming between the petals of blooming daises. The itch to head back to her cottage became stronger with each passing day. She would try to deny the pull for as long as she could. Her knuckles ached and her fingers twitched in their grip. Her heart felt like heavy weights attached to her wrists, dragging her down into the ground. On the nights that she slept – sleep was something lost to Shinigami, yet she found comfort in continuing human mannerisms and needs, a way to pretend she still had a shred of humanity left within her chest – she dreamed of walking to the willow tree and laying down. She would close her eyes, never again to open. There would be a cross at her head, sized between the two that lay there now, and she would be placed in the middle of them, the same spot where a hole laid from her scythe digging deep into the dirt on the day that she collapsed there, fell to her knees with sobs that ached her shoulders. Daises roots would bury into her skin and their petals would fall onto her face. She would fade into the ground deep enough to hold the hands with the bones on either side of her.

But Mirkwood Forest did not have willow trees. Its trees were tall, broad and strong. They had a way of looming over everything, their branches grazing against those that walked between them, their roots sunk into soil tainted with sorrow and inked with darkness. She could feel nothing but the death and the pain of trees when she stepped foot into the forest. Its trees still blossomed, but it felt more like decoration upon corpses. Its darkness was small, only really just beginning, but she could feel it in her bones. She did not care for the heavy tension that weighted in the air, as if something was  _just about_ to happen. How anyone, even the elves that took shelter within it, could even breath such thick air was a mystery to her. It tasted like blood and vile, taking in a breath burning her lungs. Thus a good thing she need not to breathe.

It wasn't long before the orc population dropped tremendously as word spread through their packs that the Soul Stealer was taking over the forest, spreading her domain. The ones she did not kill, retreated with as much pride as orcs had and she was amused to find a few young wargs left behind for her. She supposed they truly both respected and feared her and rightly so. She knew there was doubt within in the packs on if the Soul Stealer truly occupied the forests, but the fact remained that the young wargs were still left. She briefly wondered if the word would reach Gandalf, who seemed to have his finger poking into every pie that came out of the oven.

She lingered in the tree tops, watching closely. She grew bored with no orcs to kill. She briefly entertained the idea of the spiders that were, ever so slowly, spreading through their nest through the forest, but it left an unpleasant feeling in her gut. It reminded her too much of a demon who spun silk as sharp as knives. Her brows furrowed in thought at the memory of him.  _Claude,_  she believed, so similar, yet so different, than the one named  _Sebastian._ Both names, however, left a bitter taste on her tongue and turned her stomach. Her hand absently touched a spot on her torso as her eyes fogged over in memory.

* * *

_Fires burned through the skies with smoke as dark as the night, making the air barely even visible to many. Blood soaked deep into the soil, breathing death into the very Earth itself. It was here at the heart of the battle, pulsing with darkness and evil, that the battle raged on harder and bloodier than any where else on the earth. It was here where the oldest of them fought bravely, proudly, against the oldest and powerful demons that bleed black blood and taunt you with your fears and nightmares. The ones that speak smoothly with a hypnotizing voice to taint your fae. The ones that dance through battle as if it was a game. The ones with eyes that burned deep into your soul._

_It was here that Dabria hit the ground. Hard. She could feel her body betraying her and she was unsure what hurt the most, the heartbreak in her chest or the Shinigami blade that dug deeply into her side. A bit more to the left and a bit higher, it would have reached her heart. Instead, it burned into her flesh and she could feel it twist into her organs, rearranging them, breaking the ribs its tip brazed against. Shinigami blades, as nearly every demon and Shinigami knew, were the only way to truly inflict injury or death to a Grimm Reaper. A twisted irony she knew. But her eyes were drawn to the body of the blade's owner, not far from her, with their eyes filled with tears, their lips begging for air as blood turned out of their mouth. Their eyes bore right into hers and she knew that a shinigami's body drew no breath nor did their heart beat, but she swore the moment that the light left those eyes was the moment she truly died._

_She couldn't look away as spider silk slowly swept over the body like a glimmering wave before wrapping tightly around it and very suddenly, yanked the body away. She couldn't even scream, it came out breathless and caused a metallic taste to run over her tongue. Her hand weakly reached toward the body as it disappeared out of her sight, but the merely brought her own injuries into her vision. Her hand was mangled with crooked joints, the other stung with a broken wrist. Both stained red from blood and dirt, deep into every crevice of her skin and under her nails. The fingertips barely twitched when she tried to support herself with her hands, raising up from the ground with a dazed stumble, nearly collapsing again. She felt more like a walking corpse with dead eyes and a mutilated, bloodied body that could barely support itself. Her walk was slow and unsteady with a limp for her broken leg. She headed toward where the body disappeared. Her eyes were dead as a cold hand with dark nails that resembled claws gently stroked her chin and coaxed her head up so that he may look her in the eyes._

_His eyes shined with a pink unearthly color and pupils slanted like the twisted evil within him. A smirk played on his lips as he leaned forward, just enough to graze her ear with his teeth as he began to softly sing._

" _Deep in the meadow, under the willow, a bed of grass, a soft green pillow..."  
_

_The familiar lullaby, one that struck true, unadulterated fear in her heart – fear and pain that she worked so hard the past thousands of years to push down and into the depths of her memories where she may not be able to grieve. Her eyes glazed with memories of the past, of the song she sang to a once restless, bright child with a bright future only fate had other plans for the child. Her daughter died before her time, something Dabria never truly got over – a newfound widow may come to find love once more, a grieving child eventually accepts their parent's death, and a sibling remembers the pleasant times with a happy heart over time. But a parent? A parent never forgets nor do they ever forgive the Heavens for stealing the child away._

_Her eyes began glistening with tears she did not even know she possessed and the pain in her chest grew greater as she let out a deranged, broken sob. Her blood soaked into the soil around her deeply, tainting it with her very soul. She was not going to last long. Whether it be her injury or the demon, she was unsure. But he broke her and that was all that mattered to him. Breaking someone was a death in itself._

" _Please," her voice was soft as she wheezed through the blood filling her lungs, "...You bastard, kill me."_

_She felt pain as she had never felt before when her soul unwrapped at his prodding. It was being burned alive. It was being drowned in sorrow. It was whips stinging, tearing at skin. It was being stabbed and tortured and torn in half. Her soul wavered in visible light around her with soft, pulsating, yet fading glory. He grinned at her, a forked tongue running over his teeth as his nail dug into the soul. She bit her lip hard enough to split it to keep from screaming. He merely tilted his head at her, a sadistic glee shining on his face, and twisted his nail through her very spirit. Cutting it deeply as if it were nothing more than a freshly made pie and he was merely cutting himself a generously sized slice._

_His mouth parted slightly, tongue dipping from his lips with a sharp intake of breath that sucked part of her very soul in. He didn't take all of it. She wished he had, but no, he wanted her to die slowly and painfully. Or perhaps in a twisted manner, he was merely leaving her for another demon to finish. He finally closed his mouth, running his tongue over his lips._

_"Delicious," he purred, "I may keep you as a pet… Nothing more than a banquet for myself or a plaything to enjoy… But you're already broken, I'm not sure how much fun you would be now. Pity."  
_

_Her head hang low, emotions numbing in her chest. He only chuckled in response, letting her chin drop before he walked off, his back to her as if she were no threat at all._

_She would be dead soon, truly dead, so she supposed she was no threat after all._

* * *

Her nails lightly scraped at the leather of her vest where it hid marred skin and when she opened her eyes, they lit aglow through the shadows of the tree branches.  _No threat after all._ Her pointed canines were displayed in a snarl and suddenly, running to the edges where the spiders laid, seemed like a great idea. She wanted to tear through them until there were no more, destroy them limb by limb even if it covered her in layers of their blood. The blood lust ran through her veins in a fit of anger, and she was prepared to jump from the tree to hit the ground running when she heard it. That soft whisper through the wind, breathless in awe.

" _Hinnorwen."_

Her eyes snapped toward the source of the voice.  _Elves._ Or rather  _an elf_. Beautiful as all the elves were, with flawless skin and innocent eyes. Female, she could tell, too old to be an elfling, too young to be a mature adult. She stood there, not too far away from the tree in which Dabria was perched, staring at her with those wide innocent eyes, eyes that never saw hatred nor war nor bloodshed. Eyes that Dabria let herself get sucked into, even for a moment, as her expression momentarily softened, her anger slowly dispersing. The poor elf did not know what to say nor how to act as Dabria gracefully hit the ground without a sound. She merely stared, breathless, in an in between stage between dream and reality, unsure of what was real and if she could even trust her eyes.

" _Hinnorwen,_ " she repeated, a bit more confidently as she took a brave step forward, but when she tried to meet Dabria's gaze, her eyes fell back toward the ground.  _"You are Hinnowen, are you not?"  
_

 _Not,_  Dabria was so tempted to say, to let the elf believe that she did not encounter the one in their legends, to let her believe that she merely had a faint spell and was seeing things. It would be so easy to do. But her eyes made Dabria disregard that thought. Eyes that still had such a light behind them. A life and a flame that Dabria could not bring herself to choke with harsh reality. In that moment, she desperately wished that those eyes never saw death nor hate.

" _Perhaps,"_  Dabria spoke smoothly and she glided past the elfling, her eyes giving off a soft warmth, vastly different than the hot hatred they held earlier,  _"But you should not be out by yourself…?"_

The young elf did something ungraceful in the eyes of elves. Her knees buckled as she nearly tripped on her own feet to put some distance between them. Her voice, it seemed, snapped the elf to reality. She recovered quickly and smoothly, as an elf should, and bowed deeply, a light flush upon her cheeks.

_"Fandas, my lady…. I am Fandas, Lady Hinnorwen, and my path is safe. I have no need to worry when I venture for a stroll."_

The small tremble in her voice spoke of the opposite. Dabria sighed deeply, her voice turning grave as she addressed the lady's words, thinking back to the way her mentor spun words.

" _Is anywhere ever truly safe or is it merely the illusion of safety that causes one to venture without a weapon?"_

The gravity of the message seemed to come across clearly, Fandas' face paled as she dipped her head in shame, her heart beating so loudly against her chest that Dabria did not even have to strain her ears to hear it. She could already feel the upcoming headache, but knew that if she left the elf to herself to return home, only for something to occur, she would only add another name to the list of those dead. Something Dabria did so despise.  _Solitude won't serve you well,_ she mocked Gandalf's words,  _that young pain has become a nagging presence upon my shoulder. Knowing people, knowing names, makes it so much harder to let their souls go. Nothing you would know too much about Olorin._

" _Return home, young one,"_  Dabria tried to not sound as strained as she felt,  _"And know that while you may not see me, I shall watch over you."_


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also advise readers to really think about Gandalf's thoughts toward the end of the chapter - such as why does Dabria's bloodlust and darker side concern him so much? And what exactly does 'not like it did before' mean? ;)

Fandas tried hard to keep her mouth shut as her king spoke of the bared woods and their absence of orcs or any other foul creature. As if someone, or rather something, had swept through the land, sweeping off the dark forces that threatened the forest. Some spoke of it as if it were a miracle, a blessing from the Valar themselves. Others spoke of it in warning, a symbol of something worse to come. Her lips stayed sealed tightly and when she smiled, it was the grin of a trickster, a jester, that knew something that the court and its king did not. But there was one thing Fandas knew more than anything else within in her world and that was the folly of males. Males that towered over her and quieted her as if she knew nothing. Males who had gazes that lingered upon her as if she were a challenge to be won. A consultation prize during the next festival. The males of men, she knew, were much worse, but the idea that many saw the elves as such dignified beings made her stomach turn. They didn't know, no one knew truly, the horrors behind Mirkwood's castle walls nor of the evil that seeped into its stone and marble, glaring hauntingly at her when she scrubbed at its floors.

A scowl bore itself onto her face as she skirted through the woods, tightly clutching a basket of fruit to her hip. She had done this trip many times and no longer jumped at the shadows or the rustles of tree branches. She knew if the court knew what she knew that they would crowd the path she had dug into the ground herself. They would destroy the flowers beginning to bloom on the edges of the dirt-beating path. No, she decided fiercely, she would protect the path with her dying breath as it was no one but hers. It was her path.  _Her path_  led to the strongest force she believed to ever step foot upon Middle Earth's earth and she wouldn't let any elf, dwarf, or man take it from her fists.

Hinnorwen, as it could be no other, said that she would protect her, watch over her.  _Her._ Not the other elven maidens, not her king, not the court,  _her._

" _My lady,"_  she whispered as she reached a clearing, an empty spot of grass between a circle of willows. She could hear the soft flow of the stream and could see why Hinnorwen chose this spot for their encounters. It was serene, peaceful, and as she spotted the black cloak of her goddess, kneeling beside the stream, her hand softly grazing against daisy petals, she decided this was a holy spot. She could feel it through the earth, softly pulsing, from Lady Hinnorwen herself. It was strong and soft; it made her forget those that wronged her. She wanted to simply sit beside the lady and bask in the energy that radiated from her.

" _Fandas."_

When Hinnorwen spoke, it was with a rougher than anticipated tone, deeper than most of the females she met. It sounded like the soft beginning rumbles of a night storm, warning of danger. It was the way royalty spoke softly to one another, a low threat under their voice to stand down. The way a king spoke to his subjects, calmly and softly, but clearly in charge. But when the lady turned her head and her features exposed as she lowered the hood of her cloak, there was no doubt that it was indeed a lady that was before her. A goddess. A legend. Fandas lost her breath every time she gazed upon glowing skin freckled with soft scars that peaked out from the collar and eyes that bore right into her soul. Her eyes flickered to the gleaming weapon strapped upon the lady's back, a haunting reminder of the death and danger that her lady was capable of.

Fandas bowed deeply before she thrust the basket of fruit forward, keeping her head down. A strong, yet small hand delicately touched her shoulder. It burned and froze her skin, sending chills done to her bone. When she dared to look up, she saw those enticing, outlandish eyes baring right into hers. Her lady had eyes that stared directly into her soul, enticing and frightening her all the same.

" _I told you to stop that. Now sit down."_

She did not need to be told twice and her heart beat frantically within her chest. She gracefully sat down upon the grass near her lady, not daring to get any closer. The basket of fruit sat between them and hesitantly, only after Hinnorwen's instance, she took one of the fruits and bit into it. She carefully watched her lady – every time she brought an offering, she insisted for Fandas to have a few bites for herself as it was her hard work that had obtained the fruit in the first place. Yet, she cannot recall a single time in which she actually saw her lady eat. Their encounters had grown plentiful in number yet distant thoughts began to stir.

" _My lady,"_ she spoke up softly, " _Why do you watch over me so? Why do you protect Mirkwood?"_

Hinnorwen's lips twitched, yet she couldn't tell if it was a smirk or a sneer that threatened to surface.

" _My job is not to protect."_ The darkness layered in Hinnorwen's voice sent chills down her spine, her breath leaving her chest as she stared in wonderment and curiosity. A darker air surfaced around her lady, a hint of anger laying underneath it as her lady's eyes flashed a ghoulish yellow.  _"I do not protect so much as I_ _kill_ _."_

The confession should have sent her running, it should have frightened her to her core and steal her dreams to form nightmares. It should have taken everything she knew about the legend of Hinnorwen and shattered it. It should have, yet Fandas merely hummed, leaning back in the grass as a strange bubble of morbid excitement rose in her chest. She wondered just how many monsters, beasts, and men her lady had killed. How much blood was on her hands? Had she ever been wounded yet kept fighting with a fierce determination? Had she shown her strength through force to those who opposed her? Did she have a bloodlust for battle that only monsters satisfied? She glanced over to see her lady looking at her with a strange curious look on her face.

" _You, I protect not because of any obligations."_

" _Then why do you protect me, my lady?"_

This time Fandas swore that Hinnorwen, through the shadows cast by the treetops danced across her skin,  _smirked._

" _Who else would bring me fruit?"_

Fandas boomed with laughter, nearly losing her balance, her eyes glowing with mirth and her heart warming to a degree she didn't believe it was capable of. It grew in her chest, spreading across her blossom as her laughter died off, her lips turning into a soft serene smile of peace. Her eyes lingered to her lady beside her. To her credit, Hinnorwen did not seem phased at the sudden burst of laughter, nor did she give any sign of having noticed at all. She sat there still, gazing out upon the stream before them with a melancholic glaze in her eyes, almost as if she were remembering something from long ago.

 _How many memories do you hold,_  Fandas wondered as she settled further into her spot, leaning back onto the grass with her hands spread comfortably across her chest.  _How long have you walked upon this earth, my lady? How much destruction and chaos have you witnessed? How much death plague you so?_ She stole a glance through the corners of her eyes. Her lady still was there, that same look in her eyes that seemed to age her.  _And how many years have you spent becoming a legend weaved so deeply into our world? How long have you been alone…?_

Fandas had no hesitation in her heart, just a sudden realized pity toward her savior. She was young in this world, but she already knew the evil that plagued men, the shadows that danced in the night. She did no longer had any fright now, knowing her lady was within the same shadows she used to fear. But what of her lady? Did she have her own savior that brought comfort to her own fears? Did she have a home, a place to sit herself and rest? More so, did she have a warm body in her bed in which to show her pleasure and love?

Her hand drew itself farther from her side to gently graze against her lady's own fingertips. She held her breath and waited. Her hand clasped over her lady's softly before gripping it tight. Her skin was cold against her palm, colder than a corpse and it did not tremble.

Her lady did not pull away.

* * *

Dabria didn't eat like any man nor elf nor hobbit nor dwarf that Gandalf had ever known. There was never any mystical bread to fill her stomach nor did she eat constantly through the day to feed her energy. No, Dabria ate very rarely and very little. He knew of the orcs' offerings of wargs to her that she seemed to take a favoring to – he couldn't vouch for the meat's taste himself. Her cooking was something that frightened him as she often ate the meat so rare it was barely edible, though he knew that she hardly could go through just one warg in a month. Over time, he learned that her favoring toward tea came out of habit and of taste rather than a need for it. He never saw a bed in her cottage and during their brief adventuring time together, he couldn't recall a moment that he saw her slept.

Perhaps that was why the basket of fruit on her table that seemed to keep growing baffled him. She would, at times, idly toss a fruit in her hands before placing it back in the basket. Other times she cut it and placed its remains into the tea. She often offered it to Gandalf, which he always accepted gladly. He wasn't sure what truly baffled him more – the fact she kept the fruit or that it was fruit only found deep within the Mirkwood.

"Out adventuring again," Gandalf questioned, turning one of the fruits over in his hands, "A daily stroll as it were?"

Darbia scoffed, one hand held loosely onto her cup as her other waved nonchalantly toward the weapon leaning against the far corner, "A hunt would be more precise, dear friend. The beasts of Mirkwood make excellent game."

"What is game to one who hardly eats?"

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, yet merely shook his head when he noticed the way that her eyes twinkled with a sadistic mirth; it was a side he saw rarely of. He wouldn't quite call it her true nature, but it was apart of her nonetheless. The side of something dark, something twisted. It was the powerful force within her breast, the driven strength of her swing, the sharp point of her teeth. Something he didn't care to see within her, and it concerned him with the way it was seeming to grow. It made his gut turn in a strange primal fear, as if she were Death itself coming to collect his soul.

"I did not say it was that type of game."

But it was gone as quick as it came as she took a sip of her tea calmly. He settled a bit easier down in his seat, though not completely satisfied with her answer. He pressed once more, "But why would bring home so many of its fruit? They are not your kills nor trophies nor food as it seems."

Dabria waved the question off, "Offerings are rude to decline, as you should know, Olorin."

He merely hummed, taking a long drawl from his pipe, dropping the subject for now. He knew from experience the more he pressed, the more likely it was she would refuse to answer. He knew the offerings had to have been from the elves, but for what purpose he wondered. Why did the elves know of her presence enough to leave offerings? Was she showing herself to them?  _Socializing?_ Did one catch sight of her and spread the word like wildfire until they left baskets of fruit out in her honor?

He supposed he would know the answer in time, should Dabria continue whatever antics she was up to. He had to admit that he was rather curious of what the outcome shall be of her endeavors. He could remember a distant time, a mere wisp of a memory, in which she had freely wondered among those who lived on Middle Earth, creating what would later become legends and fairy tales. But he could also clearly remember the bloodlust that drove the legends, the darkness that crept up in her, threatening to rise, aimed at the dark creatures of Mordor and of Mirkwood, an angry, primal savage thirst for death that few saw in her. It wasn't mentioned much in the legends, instead they spoke of her beauty and of her eyes – perhaps history wanted to paint her as a hero, not a martyr.  _Her eyes._  He thought back to the way her eyes gleamed, the way his gut turned with an instinct of fear. His grip upon his tea tightened, his knuckles turning white.

He hoped, that whatever she was up to, wouldn't cause that side of her to rise up again. Not like it did before.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The depth of their relationship goes beyond just that of friendship

Her lover was a mystery. Fandas had long accepted this. The Great Hinnorwen was a legend – a warrior, a  _goddess._ She was said to be undefeated in battle and have the strength of over twenty men. Her eyes were just as fiery and haunting as the legends had stated, but there was no painting that could ever match the pain in her lady's eyes. There was bound to be much in her life that would remain hidden – secrets that perhaps even she hid from. And to have such a long life, a seemingly immortal -  _truly immortal –_ one, it was surely to come with much pain, war, blood, and death. But Fandas was not daft. All of their talks of battles and wars, all of which she treasured dearly, were within what seemed to be the last few centuries. She doubted that all of her lady's battles were with orcs or damned men. With such a long life behind her – how long, she wasn't sure, but long enough for her to become a legend among elves at the least – there had to be so much more to her lady. Was she foolish for thinking that with all the time that they have spent together – all the times that her lady breathed  _my dove –_  that she should know something about her lady? Something personal, something that no one else could have known?

Fandas sighed as she sat on the porch of her lady's cottage. It had become a normal schedule for her to sit upon the wooden chair placed there with a cup of tea as she waited for her lady's return. She stirred said cup idly. It was strange, she thought, how she could spend so much time at the cottage and yet the very place she was beginning to call home was as much as a mystery to her as her lady. She had yet to hear the story behind the weapons that lined its walls nor why her lady would own so many when she seemed to use only one. The willow tree, surrounded by daises of all things, by the stream was just as baffling. When she had walked upon its earth, it felt as holy as the land that her lady would tread.

Maybe she hadn't accepted the mystery of her lady as well as she had believed.

* * *

It was a strange thing, how things could get simultaneously get harder and yet easier at the same time. It was getting harder to look at her reflection in the pool of water within the stream by her cottage, yet easier to get the blood out of her hair. She lingered there, at the stream's edge, reflective as the water she couldn't even look at.  _'Bloodlust doesn't serve you well,'_ Olorin had once told her. She remembered the way his voice echoed around her with such hurt and pain, almost broken at the mere idea of what she was capable of. But she also remembered the way that destruction had laid around her, blood dripping down her skin like dark wine. Her tongue danced across sharp canines, before she brought her lips together tight.

It crawled under her skin and made her feel as if her heart still beat within her chest. It made her fingers twitch around her blade. It caused the shinigami in her to lunge, to collect the souls denied to her. Perhaps Fandas did postpone it, until their discussion grew darker with each passing session. Until her tales of battle included how she got blood off of her scythe and cloak and how much blood it took before she deemed a cloak too bloodied to fix. The elf maiden's questions –  _detailed questions –_ about her kills and battles were an odd, yet common, choice of topic that occurred often enough to make adrenaline pump beneath her skin. She steered cleared of the war that still plagued her each time she closed her eyes, the demons that danced in her mind at night and the damage left in her fae. But instead she spoke of the monsters that stalked across Middle Earth's shadows, ones that dwelled close to Mordor and ones that ventured too far out.

Her eyes finally wandered to her reflection in the water's surface. There was a darkness to her eyes that she had not seen in a long while, a dangerous gleam that she forgot she possessed. It should cause fear to bubble in her chest and yet as fingers gently touched the water's surface, her reflection broke off and changed into a memory of long ago. When was the last time she truly felt this alive? The last time she felt this excitement dance in her chest? Before the war, she was sure. Before the reality of death had sunk deep into her soul and she knew what it was to truly lose everything once loved. When was the last time she felt… young? She could hardly truly remember the excitement of battle in her youth, the adrenaline that came with raking a soul and the curiosity of something new.

 _Something new… something almost… magical._ An almost smile twitched at the corners of her lips as she stood up from her place beside the stream. She did not need to turn around to know that Fandas stood behind her with the type of energy that only the youth possessed. She also knew that the blood that still freshly garnished her scythe did not detour the maiden.

" _It's getting rather cold,"_  Fandas' voice, while it had matured over the years still had the soft, young innocent held within it, " _While it does not effect your skin, it has a strong impact on mine…."_

A delicate, soft hand touched Dabria's shoulder and it did not once shake nor hesitate. Fandas' voice was softer and close enough to her ear that she could feel the elf's breath against her neck. She knew better by now to linger so close to the sharp blade by her lover's side, yet her other hand did not tremble as it gently clasped against the one that held the blade.

" _My lady… Come inside… Please."_

Dabria paused for a moment before she turned, Fandas' grip dropping from her as she lead them both back to the cottage. Wind whipped around her, causing her cloak to bellow around her form. They entered the cottage together, as they have done many nights before, plans of starting a warm fire danced in Dabria's mind. Dabria's cloak and bloodied weapon were left by the door before she descended into the kitchen, passing by the bowl that was overflowing with fruit. She did not get very far before Fandas was once again calling her – but she had no annoyance. Instead, she basked in the melodic sound of her voice and treasured it, storing the memory of its sound forever into her memory.

" _My lady,"_ Fandas spoke, " _I already have a hot bath ready for us."_

Mischief danced in her eyes, twinkling with the same hidden meaning that hid in her words. Dabria smirked, pleasure blooming within her at what the other woman was implying.

" _Careful, my dove, lest we start a scandal."_

Fandas' laugh rang like beautiful bells that Dabria welcomed warmly.

" _I do believe that we are already far past the beginnings of a scandal."_

* * *

Fandas' body was warm, a welcome change to the cold nights Dabria had spent in her bed before. It almost made her skin tingle with the differences between their body's temperatures. Warm against cold. She knew how her own touch sent tingles down Fandas' skin from the icy touch against her sensitive skin, tracing circles along each vein. She also knew that now, despite her eyes being open, her lover was fast asleep against her side. Dabria sighed, almost regretfully, as her fingers still traced idle, meaningless, letters against her lover's stomach. She missed sleep. She missed that innocent ability to be able to dream – to leave this world and go off into one of your own.

" _Do you dream, my dove,"_ she spoke softly, not wanting to wake her lover, but she felt as if this was something that needed to be spoken.  _"What do you dream of I wonder?"_

Fandas blinked, signaling that her lady's voice had waken her. Instead of being upset of being awoken from rest, Fandas merely turned onto her side and smiled. She stared, unafraid, into the icy, yellow depths of her lady's eyes. Her lady had such beautiful eyes, she thought, yet it was hidden behind so many layers of pain and sadness. She dreamed of those eyes. She dreamed that she was able to take the pain off her lady's heart so that it was open for the love that she felt toward her lady. Awaking was a strange mix of a nightmare – facing the reality that such a thing would not be possible – and hope. Hope that perhaps with more time, the dream could become a reality. She didn't speak this, instead she offered a question of her own.

" _Did you ever dream, my lady?"_

Dabria hummed, feeling the warmth of Fandas's side under palm and the soft beat of her heart. In her youth, she did dream. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could still see that dream. She dreamed of dancing within a field of a daises. A clear sky led a blazing sun to beat down on her, yet she did not feel its warmth with the cool breeze that would rustle her skirt. It was a dream full of laughter as she danced, singing an old lullaby. A child would dance beside her – a child she knew too well and now tried to forget – and they would take her hand and dance to the melody she sang. They would pluck daisies to create small flower ringlets that the child would insist they wear on their heads before they dove beneath a willow's protective branches where they would sleep. Then she would wake up.

" _Once upon a time, perhaps."_

Fandas' eyes twinkled with curiosity, her attention rising. They had spoken of battles as if it were a conversation over tea, laughed over the bloodied details of death, and yet there was still so much of her lady that was still a mystery to her.  _How can one who had once dreamed no longer even need sleep?_

" _What did you dream of, my lady?"  
_

The look on her lady's face made her pause as it took the breath away from her very breast. If she did not know any better, she would say that her lady's eyes were close to tears. They shined brilliantly in the night of the room, hauntingly, but there was an almost happiness in them. A peaceful happiness that outshone the sorrow and for the first time since they had started their visits, Fandas saw something she never thought she'd ever see within her lifetime. The great Hinnorwen – her hero, her  _goddess,_ her  _lover –_   _smiled._

" _Daisies,"_  her lady's voice was so soft that even with her elven ears, Fandas almost didn't hear.

That night was full of Dabria's soft humming of a song that Fandas couldn't name, a soft smile on her lady's lips, and clear, peaceful eyes as if for the first time, her lady had forgotten the depth of her pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are pretty heated and pretty serious - for now. Due to time, pain, and sorrow, the motivation and willingness to submit to her inner power and darkness had faded, but with Fandas igniting that side of Dabria again, just how long will their relationship really last? And with Fandas wanting not only to know more about her lady, but to have a truly serious relationship, will Dabria want the same?
> 
> And a better explanation of Dabria's dream is coming up soon


	7. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intermission: The story behind Dabria

Dabria Ailmere couldn't help but stare hopelessly ahead, a blank look in her eyes with a plastered on, yet solemn smile on her face. For what was supposed to be a light fabric, it felt heavy on her body, pushing her down and squeezing her chest to the point it was hard to breath. She tried to act as if she were not on the brink of death from the lack of oxygen, yet it grew more and more difficult with each passing second.

It was her duty to look her best – smile, stand up straight, don't put up a fight.  _'A woman's duty is not to herself, but to her family.'_ Celeste, her mother, had told her constantly that a woman was to do no more than what was expected of them, to simply marry, have children, and then die. In her youth –  _ha, I am still in my youth, barely over eighteen –_ she tried everything she could to fight it. She wanted an education, she wanted to learn, to have a life for  _herself_  and not live to please some  _man_  who her mother saw fit as a suitor for her.  _But I suppose Mother was right,_  Dabria thought,  _in the end, it is truly best for us to just settle for what life will give us, what life will always give us. What is the point_ _of reaching for the heavens when all you will feel between your fingers is empty air and clouds._

Her to-be-husband, she had learned, was named Joseph Shambrooke, whom was ten years her senior. Sneaking a small glance toward him, she had to admit that he did not seem pleasant at all. He had a stern expression on his face, his hands folded behind his back, his head held high. There was a darkness dwelling in the depths of his eyes that made her spine shiver as a sudden sense of dread built in her stomach. She swallowed thickly and turned to face ahead once more, trying to shake off the sense that she was signing a death wish.  _Is he truly to be my husband? Is this what will become of me?_

* * *

They tried to have children for years, Joseph was constantly pressuring her to become a mother as if convinced that if they had a child then they would magically fall in love and finally have a peaceful marriage. Dabria knew better than to believe in that false dream – their loveless marriage came from his temper. It was foolish for her to think that they would ever harbor feelings for each other when he would be as quick to hit her as quick as he was to kiss her.

But after years of hoping, they were gifted with one child. A daughter named Prudence. When she first looked into her daughter's eyes, she knew that she would do anything she could to give Prudence the best life possible. A life of her own choosing – she would teach her daughter to never back down from a fight, to not hold her tongue, to stand her ground, to dare to believe in angels in the clouds and a life beyond being just a wife, to know that she was worth her weight in gold and more no matter what others believed. She would teach her everything her mother did not teach.

But it was days such as this one, with Joseph away at work, leaving just herself and Prudence, that Dabria felt peaceful.  _This_  was her family. Not her husband. Not her mother nor father. Not her ghastly sister that married rich only to leave her family in poverty. No. Her family was  _this._  Just herself and Prudence inside the rotting, smelly room of a shack in a London that couldn't support all of its residents with nothing but dirt beneath their feet. Some days they would dare to venture out of the room. The crowds and carriages made the city distasteful. Instead, she would pack a lunch – or at least some food to support her daughter – and they would go out to the fields way past the city and way past the hill of the rich. There would be no one there and due to the openness of the field in the bright of day, there was hardly a worry for wild animals. They would spend the day in the daisy field, dancing and singing. She taught her daughter how to create crowns out of the flowers and their stems as she would swear to her that one day, they would live in a cottage in that very field.

A genuine smile stretching across her face as she glanced toward the small, barely even four, girl at her side. The small girl looked at her mother with droopy, half-lidded eyes and a yawn. Her tiny arms wrapped tightly around Dabria's legs, hugging her close in a way that sent warmth through Dabria's veins.

"Mama," Prudence yawned and tiredly gazed toward the small canapy bed in the corner of the bedroom.

Dabria's smile only grew as she scooped up the child in her arms, cradling her close, and planting a motherly kiss on the girl's head.

" _Deep in the meadow, under the willow, a bed of grass, a soft green pillow,"_ Dabria sang softly, her voice deeper and mature as she gently placed Prudence into bed,  _"Lay down your head and close your eyes. When they open, the sun will rise._ _Here it's safe, and here's it warm. Here the daises guard you from every harm. Here your dreams sweet and tomorrow brings them true… Here is the place where I love you."  
_

Dabria sat on the edge of the bed, a hand caressing Prudence on the cheek as the child's eyes fluttered closed at her mother's lullaby.

* * *

The smallest casket was the heaviest. Tuberculosis had taken many people and even children, even an innocent loving one such as Prudence (whom was only seven), could not escape from its deathly grasp. They did not have the money for a tombstone and with the crowded numbers of those dead, Prudence – like many other children whom had passed – was placed inside a six foot hole with other bodies before being buried over.

It did not settle well with Dabria that her baby – her  _baby –_ was just a number among those dead. She took it upon herself to build a tombstone. It was shoddy and made of rotten wood, but she did well to carve her child's name into it. She put it in the field herself. It may not have been where her child's body was buried, but she was sure that was where her child's spirit – if it were not in Heaven – was. It was where she felt the closest to her daughter.

It pained her each moment she was away from it and so her new schedule began. Wake up, fix breakfast for her husband, and once he was gone, she would disappear into the fields. She would pray, clean the wood to the best of her ability, pick any weeds, and plant more daisies around the grave. She knew that with the daises that Prudence would feel safe, wherever her spirit laid. She would fall asleep by the wooden grave and only wake to the sound of the animals stirring in the woods not far from her. She would drag herself into the house before properly sleeping in the bed by Joseph's side only to restart the same schedule the next day.

They had tried for another child, yet it had led into a miscarriage that robbed her of the chance to have children again. A heavy weight pressed down against her chest and she felt as if it would never go away. She couldn't eat nor sleep, her mind filled only with images and memories of her loving, adoring daughter that was never going to come back home. Never going to hear her mother's lullaby once more. Never going to grow up however she may have chosen with the support of her mother behind her. Prudence, Dabria could remember clearly, was particularly fond of the idea of becoming a female doctor. It was a far stretch, she knew, but it was where her heart was so Dabria did her best to support her. Even if Joseph did not.

It took merely a year of Prudence's death before Joseph finally accepted that Dabria was never going to eat more than a few crackers, and maybe a few slices of bread, a day. Her cheek bones grew sharpened and edgy, her eyes sunk deep into her skull with dark circles forming around them. Her body was hardly more than a skeleton that constantly grew sick. Joseph had tried to beat it into her that she was wasting away – quite literally – yet every time his hand hit her face, she just stared at him with dead, empty eyes.

Yet there she found herself, standing on the edge of the tallest bridge she could find, staring down at the cold, freezing water below. The winter air nipped at her skin and her body was shivering desperately, trying to warm itself. It was hard to even stand properly from the cold that sunk to her bones. She did not want to stand. She did not want anything, really, aside from the need she felt to be free. Free of the weight that drug her soul down. Free of that  _damned_ husband of hers. Free to do what she wished and to see her daughter again.

She began to hum to herself, a lullaby that she had not sung since Prudence's death.  _Deep in the meadow, under the willow, a bed of grass, a soft green pillow…_ Her child's eyes would not be opening again to see the morning sun nor will her dreams ever true. She continued to hum as she closed her eyes and turned her back to the water before she leaned backward and let herself fall.

When she opened her eyes, her first thought was that she had failed. But alas, that was not the case. She was dead. She could see her dead body laying in the water, slowly beginning to turn blue. Was she a spirit? A demon? She stood in the water, scared and confused. The cold was no longer bothersome, yet comforting.

"You're dead," a voice spoke up, "But there's a price to pay when one commits suicide."

She turned to face the mysterious speaker, squinting at how distant and blurred he appeared. Strange. She didn't recall having such bad eyesight before. Yet when she blinked, the stranger was already closer than before, a mere foot from her, allowing her to see more of him, yet he was still blurry and faded around the edges. She blinked profoundly to try to focus her vision but it was no use.

"Here," the stranger spoke, handing her a pair of strange glasses that were simple and thin, "These will be of use to you."

She hesitantly took the spectacles before placing them on the bridge of her nose, blinking a moment before her vision cleared allowing her to see everything in perfect detail. She stared at the stranger before her with a curious tilt of her head. Was he an angel? A demon here to kill her? Or someone to lead her into the afterlife? He looked the part. A suit more detailed and fine than she had ever seen before. A nicer, fit pair of glasses in front of his green-yellow eyes that seemed to stare straight through her. Long white hair, longer and whiter than she ever thought possible, dangled to his knees, yet it was oddly perfectly combed and in place. A long scythe, though different and more sharp than what she was used to, lazily swung over his shoulder. He grinned at her, showing his pointed canines.

"Who are you," she whispered, the fear leaking into her voice, her bottom lip tremblingly as she took an uneasy step backward, " _What_  are you?"

"Not just me, my dear," he winked, "But now you as well. See, the fates have a morbid sense of irony, I'm afraid. When one commits the ultimate taboo, we are giving up our afterlife in exchange of an eternal, cursed afterlife in the middle ground. Not quite alive. Not quite dead. We are Grim Reapers. We are the Shinigami. We are an immortal race, quicker than any rabbit, more dangerous than wolf. Quieter than any shadow. We are protectors, in our own right, but reap what others sow. And I, my dear, have been sent to be your mentor into this cursed life."

He dipped deeply in a bow before he looked up at her, eyes twinkling with an even larger grin on his face, before he stood at attention, reaching just over a foot above her head. He stretched his arm out, offering it to her. She eyed it cautiously for a moment before she hesitantly took his arm and let her lead her away from the scene of her death.

"I'll never see my child, again, will I," she asked softly, barely even speaking at an audible level and for a moment, he looked at her with pity.

"No, but sometimes it is for the best," he admitted, "…Once you are here, with us, there is no returning to any part of your past life. I like to see it as a second chance."

She glanced at him through the corner of her eyes, a part of her angry for getting robbed of the chance to her daughter, but another part of her felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest.  _A second chance._  She wouldn't have to live with that dreadful husband of hers. She could roam. She could do whatever it was that she wished. If she was already dead who was there to stop her?

"I am Dabria," she finally spoke up, "Tell me, what is the name of my to be mentor?"

His wolfish, insane grin returned easily.

"Adrian, my dear, but please, most call me  _The Undertaker."_


	8. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A particular line is crossed too far

Dabria sat underneath the willow tree in melancholic silence, knelt to her knees with her scythe sticking into the ground beside her. She didn't pray anymore. She already outlived humanity once and had met the new god of this world. It made it hard for her to believe in the God she had once believed in when she was young. Yet she was tempted. She was tempted to believe in a higher power. Tempted to dare to believe that there was something out there that was much bigger than she, for lately she couldn't help but feel as though she too was burdened by power. Such power burned beneath her skin, creating a warmth she hadn't felt in so long. There was a fire in her fingertips when she swung her weapon in battle – though she hardly called it a battle when her enemies stood no chance against her.

She gently carded her fingers through the daises that surrounded her. She wondered if her daughter would be proud of how powerful and how strong her mother had become. Or would her daughter shrink away in fear a mosnter? The thought scared her more than anything. The idea of her own  _beautiful_ baby being scared of her made her hand tremble. Her chest grew tight and she wanted to cry.  _But enough tears have been shed over her grave._ She held back the tears, swallowing thickly as she steadied herself. But the thought still stored itself in the back of her mind.

She could hear and see him long before he revealed himself. But she did not move as Gandalf wandered out from the treeline. She watched him from the corner of her eyes, but still made no move. She finished making her peace and rose silently and gracefully. With one swift move, her weapon was removed from the ground and she met Gandalf's eyes easily.

As their eyes met, Gandalf couldn't help the sensation that he was looking at another person. Whomever stood before him was not his dearest friend for her eyes were too dark, too haunted by a darkness that he knew she could not admit. It sent flashes of the past and of the way she easily slaughtered her enemies without a care through his mind. He stood steady, but there was a frightening chill that went down his spine. This rising of past was more than concerning. Looking at her, he decided, was like looking at the face of Death itself. As if she were there to collect his very soul and he would be forced to submit to her mercy.

"Olorin," Dabria broke the silence. "I wish I had known you were coming, my friend. I would have prepared more tea."

Gandalf sighed and began to walk forward, only to be stopped by the handle of her weapon sticking out in front of him. He eyed her cautiously and wondered if he would prefer the sorrow in her eyes over the darkness. He never had seen her eyes so close to breaking as she met his eyes with such an open pain, an open wound that he was afraid he had accidentally spilled salt upon – how he wasn't sure, but he had a feeling it had to do with the daises she often laid in and what looked to be a grave hidden by the shadows of the willow tree.

"My cottage lies the other way,  _my friend."_

Her voice was deeper, huskier. As if she was sending him a warning that he would he not take lightly. With thinned lips, he held his head high and together, they strut toward her cabin. He raised an eyebrow at the changes he noticed on the outside – a second chair beside what used to be a lone one on the porch, clothing spread out on thin wires to dry in the sun, and there was a feeling of an almost homey warmth emitting from it. A warmth that he thought she wasn't capable of producing.

He entered the cabin with her and noted the freshly sewn cushions, the engraved pictures, and the fruit bowl that had steadily decreased in size since his last visit, yet was still more than he knew she needed. Suspicions began to rise. But the idea of her sharing her home with someone – this intimately – was so foreign. Yet he didn't see any other explanation. There had to be someone else living with her – a partner perhaps. Perhaps she had succeeded in her quest to find her companions, perhaps one of them took it to live with her. Or perhaps there was something else going on entirely.

His found his answer when he turned into the kitchen. His eyes grew wide, stunned at the young female elf that greeted him. His mind swam with possibilities.  _A protegee? A friend? A lover?_ More importantly,  _how did this happen without him knowing_ and  _when did this happen?_ The elf seemed to be over the adult age for an elf, but not by much. She was still young. Too young, he thought, to be associated with Dabria of all folk. She, however, did have a fire in her eyes that most elves lacked. It disturbed him a bit that the fire was directed toward him. He raised a hand in peace, but it failed to appease her. It wasn't until Dabria stepped between them that the elf stepped back, letting her guard drop.

 _Now this interesting._ The two had to be lovers – which was surprising in itself as he thought Dabria lacked an interest in taking anyone to bed. But it was the look they shared between them that he found curious. The elf had looked to Dabria as if she were life itself, with an admiring awe that was eerily reminiscent of worship. Dabria had looked down to her, the darkness fading from her eyes to show a caring kindness that he wasn't even sure she was capable of. But it was concerning, to say the least, on both ends. There was a darkness in the elf – one that he didn't see to often as it formed only from deep hatred and anger.

There was much going on here, but what was clear was that despite the love that seemed to be shared, this before him was a recipe for disaster. The love she shared with this elven maiden was going to be the destruction of her, he was certain. The elf's darkness drew out her own in a way that was not going to end well for anyone involved. It was going to end in bloodshed, a massacre, and he had a feeling that they would stand in the center of it with glee. He decided that he did not like the way this elf drew that side out of Dabria – the side that he had worked so hard to get her to control. This elf was going to ruin everything – all of his work, all of Dabria's progress, all of Middle Earth if they wished. He had no doubt that if that elf had asked her to, Dabria would shatter mankind and those alike without a second thought or any hesitation.

He pondered deeply for a moment, frowning in thought that he almost got too caught up in to notice Dabria's soft smile. He broke seeing her smile. It pained him so greatly he took a seat at their table with a hand loosely at his chest. There was so much pureness in that smile, a young love that he never thought he would see within her. He took the tea offered to him with shaking hands, eyes never leaving them.

It was doomed, he believed, and it was only a matter of time.

* * *

She had wished that he wasn't right. She had heard Olorin's warnings, time after time, and she refused to believe him. How could she? She had grown to care so deeply for Fandas that she never wished to let go. She wanted to hold her in her arms and let the world slip away from them. She wanted to drown in her eyes and never come up for air. Yet as the darkness within her grew, she realized that Fandas showed no fear, but instead encouraged it. Like a fool, she had listened. She let the praise fill her veins and embraced the darkness. She let the bloodlust take over with no hesitation, she swung her weapon with no regrets, and let it consume her. The darkness had become a part of her to the point where she once again became what she was before. A shigami. Middle Earth had no place for soul reapers anymore, so she took it upon herself to carve a way for them once more. She had taken dark souls before – those of orcs and other dark creatures. But it didn't satisfy her and her will to fight against it broke.

It was a small village – so far from anyone that she doubted that anyone knew of its existence. Still Barend held just over four hundred men, their wives, their children… it was all a blur to her, mostly because she went through so fast that no one knew what had happened. There was a good part of the population that was due to die soon from disease and it was only a matter of time before it had hit the rest. If not disease then something else would come along – an orc raid would be most likely. She told herself she was giving them mercy by taking their souls so swiftly that they did not know the pain of death, yet their blood still stained into the dirt.

She stood in the middle and wondered how she let it become this. She wondered how she let herself become a monster and why she had embraced it so easily. She understood that this town was one were Fandas grew up before she had found her way to Mirkwood. She understood that they had hurt her so badly that she had scars that would not heal. Yet she did not understand why Fandas had asked her to take care of her pain in this manner? What did killing this town accomplish? How did this heal her? And why did she agree?

Taking their souls gave her too much information to take this in any sort of stride. She knew each of their names, their first steps, which ones grew up with mothers, with fathers, and which ones grew up without either. There were few that even remembered Fandas, but not a single one had been any of the ones that had done her wrong. They were quiet people, but ultimately good people. And even if they weren't – even if this were a crime, murder infested settlement, did that justice her actions? She killed without justification – right justification. She killed people, humans that hadn't done anything to provoke what they had received.

She was wrong. Oh how she was so  _wrong._

She fell to her knees.

For the first time in thousands of years… she cried.

* * *

Fandas had been thrilled when she saw her lady return, the blood of the men whose fathers or grandfathers that had down her wrong had dawned her lady's clothing like it was paint. Her hair was wet with blood and thick with mats, but that was nothing a good washing couldn't fix. She could finally rest in peace knowing that the sins of the past had been taken care of. She was ready to embrace her lover, to thank her, to give her praise. Yet she stopped short. There was something different this time. There was an air of somberness around her lady that was so thick and deep that even her fae seemed effected. Her head was hung so low that she could not see her eyes beneath the shadows of her hair. Her weapon, drenched in blood, hung limply at her side. It was unlike her, it was as if she was looking at a completely different person.

Dabria finally looked up at her, but her eyes seemed to look straight through her. As if she couldn't be bothered to look at her properly – or couldn't handle it. There were tear stains down dirty cheeks and no love in her eyes, but the pain in her fae reflected in her irises too much to be ignored. She walked with a steady beat until she reached Fandas. Her body was stiff and something deep in Fandas gut felt  _wrong._ As if something bad was going to happen. As if her world was about to shatter, but by  _Eru_ if it did, she was prepared to pick up each sharp piece herself to put it back together if it meant keeping  _this_ as her reality. She took a step forward, arms open as if she were about to give a hug, but Dabria stopped her short.

Her eyes looked off into the distance with a thousand yard stare and that was when Fandas felt her heart stop.

"Fandas." Even her voice sounded different. It lacked the warmth she had grown accustomed to, the love they shared. "I will not kill for you again."

Fandas gave a weak smile and though she spoke, her voice faltered as she desperately clung to the belief that that was all that was bothering her lover.

"I will not ask you to, my love."

 _My love._ Dabria's eyes closed and she had to remind herself this was for the best. She could not allow herself to go down this road of careless bloodshed and destruction again. She refused to. There was a part of her that wanted to believe that she could uphold that promise to herself and be with Fandas as well. Yet she knew that was something that just simply wouldn't be possible no matter how much she wished it.

"My dove," Dabria's voice was breathless and soft, "I have no doubt that you intend to keep that promise and as such, you should understand the importance of keeping one's word. But one's word to thyself is also just as important to upkeep."

Fandas couldn't breath nor move. She could just stand there and listen with hope that this conversation did not end the way she believed it would. She knew it would be a mistake to ask her lover to do this, but she couldn't resist it. The urge to get revenge on those bastards back for the sins of their fathers had made her ache and sleepless. It had called to her and she had answered it.

"Long ago, I had made a mistake. I had fallen into a darkness that I would not have gotten out of if not for Olorin. Once he helped me pull myself out of the grave I had dug for myself, I had promised I would not take an innocent life again."

Fandas did not like the way that she couldn't look at her, her lady's eyes had opened but had turned toward the sky with remorse. She wasn't sure if she was only seeing tears in her lady's eyes because of the tears in her own.

"Fandas… I broke that promise today and I refuse to break it again…"

As her lady's head turned to look at her, she knew she was not imagining the tears.

"My sincerest apologies, my dove… But this between us cannot continue any longer."

And like that, Fandas' world shattered into so many pieces that she knew she couldn't fix it.


	9. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dabria recovers from a broken heart, Gandalf brings news of her previous love.

It was a long time before Gandalf saw her again, but when he finally tread toward the familiar cottage, he wondered if he made the right decision long ago of warning Dabria of Fandas' influence over her. It was the right decision, but that did not mean it was an easy one to make. He merely hoped that it did not cause the bridge between them to burn.

He didn't know what to expect as he stood on the porch, eerily empty of any chairs. No floral or fauna grew around the cottage, save for the solemn willow tree surrounded by daisies. That gave him a bit of hope that she was, at least, of good enough health to care for them. He could never wrap his head around their importance, but Dabria had always took careful care of that tree and those daisies that never seemed to wilt.

The door creaked open and she stood there like she always had. She offered him tea, like she always did.

She brought him inside and offered him a seat, as she always did. There were weapons across the wall, like there always were. Her one particular scythe, the one that never seemed to leave her side, sat against the wall with a thin layer of dust and dirt from lack of use. Yet one scythe, that didn't seem to have moved from its place on a particularly nice stand, was oddly clean.

People changed in time, he knew, but some people simply didn't. Dabria rarely went through any change, yet she had in the decades he had been gone. Despite all the things she did the same, she walked like she was a living dead, slow and steady. As if the world had slowed down for her.

She still met his gaze across the kitchen table – a table, he noted, that lacked any fruit. Her eyes seemed to be that of a corpse's – free of any signs of life. She was hardly an open person before, now she barely even spoke. Her voice lacked emotion, her clothes free of any dirt or blood. There was a shade to her skin that suggested she had not been out long in the sun. Now more than ever, he worried for her. He had seen her go through these spells before, but this had to be the worst one and it reminded him too much of a fading elf, an elf that had nothing else to live for, nothing left for them in the mortal realm, an elf that had no desire to fight to live anymore.

"There is a reason I do not like to make new friends Olorin," Dabria finally spoke, her voice betraying the emotion she must feel behind those dull eyes. She stared down into her tea cup, idly stirring it with a sharp nail. She spoke slowly and softly, yet he listened intently. He hung onto each word she spoke, hoping that anything she were to say would not be what he feared. But then she continued. "I have lost so much more than you can imagine, Olorin. For each life that I have taken, there is a life of someone I have cared about that had been taken from me. Friends. Family. Until finally I am one of the only ones that remain."

"I was searching for the others," she explained, "There are only two others, but it is better than having no one left. You can imagine how I felt when instead I stumbled upon a young elf maiden who was so eager to throw herself to me."

Her eyes met his and there were not tears, but rather a glistening to them like a fogged glass. As if she were trying her best not to cry. As if she did not want to show that weakness in front of him, or perhaps she did not wish to give into the weakness that was plaguing her.

"I had forgotten what that felt like – what everything felt like. I became addicted to the way I felt about her, I'm afraid. I grew old and thought I could not experience the way she made me feel. But she proved me wrong…  _Eru_ , she proved me wrong..."

"We are never too old to experience love, my friend." His voice was earnest, full of so much care and tenderness that last of her resolve broke as her shoulders dropped, her eyes becoming low and hooded. "But with each love we have, we become wiser."

She was quiet for a moment, not speaking nor moving. She sat motionless, staring off into the distance, thinking of something he could never guess. Finally, after an eternity, she spoke. Her voice so quiet he nearly did not hear her words.

"Perhaps I then wish to become a fool."

* * *

It took a century, maybe two, before she ventured out again. It seemed like it was a blink of an eye to her, time passing by so fast that she didn't even bother counting the number of times the sun rose and set. But that was exactly why she was venturing out. Her grasp of time, and how every moment and each life passed too quickly to be truly appreciated, only reminded her of something important. It reminded her of her immortality, of how she had more lifetimes than any other being could grasp, to find her comrades. But with time passing by so fast, it would not be long before eventually she would find them again.

And so ever so slowly, the darkness and grief over her love began to brighten with the hope that one day she would be with her family again. One day, she would hear the echoing laughter of her mentor and the teasing snides of her brother in her arms. But that meant that one day, she would face an enemy she could not defeat and would fall into the dirt as lifeless as she truly was. She didn't know which day would come sooner, nor if it would be the next day nor next century. She also didn't know which she would prefer to come first, but she supposed that either way, she would get what she longed for. So she may as well start reminding the dark creatures why no one was to venture near her land.

Bloodshed followed her path like a dark shadow, but it brought her no glee. She did it out of a necessity and ignored the way that her fingers twitched with an aching pain to cut the throats of her enemies. She ignored the itch beneath her skin and bit sharply into her lip, if anything still flood through her veins, she would bled. Yet instead it was an eerily dry, small tear that she left in her lip.

She tried not to enjoy it too much, reminding herself that she could not let herself become what she was before. But she still felt relief with each head she split open or cut off as if it were butter. These beasts were nothing to her, yet they were a stress relief that she desperately needed.

"Another session, my dear," Gandalf asked as she ventured toward her cottage.

Her clothes reeked and were stained so thickly with blood that there were no amount of washing that could save them. Her hair was matted to her head and formed long knots down her back, yet her chest still did not rise and fall with the expersated breath of a warrior after a long battle nor did she smell of bodily sweat. Despite the state of her clothes and hair, her skin remained pale, lacking any faint redness. It made her seem unearthly, out of place, yet her eyes did not have that dangerous gleam to them, for which Gandalf breathed in relief.

"We all have manners for which we relieve stress, Olorin," Dabria spoke evenly, her voice never wavering as she walked through her cottage, "Come, if you can excuse my state of dress, we may have tea."

She stopped short, seeing hesitation on his face. Hesitation was a rarity for him. The young trickster always had something up his sleeve, always prepared for every situation, he was as always as likely to have a strategy for a battle as she was to be running into it. He was, quite simply, never hesitant. Each time he was, however, rarely meant good news for her.

Her expression dropped, "What is bothering so, Olorin?"

There was a moment of tense silence before he finally spoke, "I have news… From Mirkwood."

Her jaw twitched at the mention of Mirkwood. She hadn't been to the forests there since she had left Fandas. There was no need to bring up her memories of her lost love, no need to relieve their happiness together when there were no chances for that happiness with her again. Last she had heard of Mirkwood was simply that since her disappearance, more darkness had crept in and while a part of her longed to go rid the woods of it to protect Fandas, the other part was content on staying away from the trouble it would bring.

"Oropher's son, Thranduil, has taken the throne and with it, a new Queen."

That was… unexpected. She knew of Oropher's fall, as she heard of that Last Alliance of Elves and Men. Gandalf had desperately wanted her to join its forces, wanting her to turn the tides in their favor, but she was not about to rush into yet another war. She was mildly, and pleasantly, surprised when they succeeded in defeating Sauron, but she knew that no war came without casualties. While she wasn't pleased to hear of his death, it was expected.

However, she knew of Thranduil, she had heard of his ruthlessness and cold demeanor. Him taking a new wife to be Queen wasn't something she expected. At most, she expected perhaps he would have taken a mistress to birth an heir.

"That's… pleasant."

She supposed, she didn't quite see what made Gandalf so hesitant to share this news with her. It was hardly noteworthy, even if it was a bit of a surprise.

"He married a common elf maiden, a chambermaid no less," Gandalf continued, if a bit slowly, "And from what I have heard, her name is… Her name is Fandas, my dear."

_Oh._

Yes, now  _that_  was quite the surprise.


	10. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dabria takes it upon herself to make sure that her love is well taken care of.

Dabria stood in the middle of the woods of Mirkwood on the edge of where the elven kingdom lay. She wasn't quite sure what her real reason was for being here. Perhaps it was to see the truth for herself, or to find a closure of sorts. Perhaps it was for something more selfish, but was it truly selfish of someone to want to see the face of their beloved one last time before they're stolen away from them forever? Perhaps she wanted to see that Fandas was happy, that she was not bonding herself to an elf out of necessity, that the new King was not forcing her to be his bride. Nay, she needed to see that Fandas was happy. If she were happy, then perhaps Dabria could find it within her to be happy for her old love.

Before she truly realized what she was doing, she had found herself on the edge of a river where she and Fandas frequented often. It was, in a way, their own small spot of paradise. It was where they could disappear from the world and instead, into each other. She was even farther from the kingdom than she was before, but this felt like the right place to visit before she took a glance into the castle's walls. She needed to feel the energy of this land once more, to feel the memories that were soaked into its soil. She closed her eyes and she could smell the sweet scent of Fandas' soap, she could feel soft skin at her fingertips with nothing but dancing water between them.

Movement stirred her from her thoughts and quicker than a breath, she disappeared into the shadows of the treetops. Her chest felt heavy at the smell of lavender that caught up in the breeze, she could see them clearly as they wandered through the forests as if they had nothing to fear. They trailed the path that she once walked with her love, sat at the spot that she once did, and her chest tightened. She knew that elves were what was considered beautiful by most, but she knew that there were none as beautiful as Fandas, especially now that she was adorned with the most expensive dress and rarest jewels as she sat beside whom Dabria could only assume was none other than Fandas' chosen husband.

"I tell you, my King," Fandas insisted fondly with a smile, her hand tightly clasped with his, "It is true. I will swear to all the Valar that the legendary Hinnorwen lives and breathes as I."

"And how would you know this, my love," the blonde and fair elf spoke - Thranduil, Dabria reminded herself, though it pained her. His voice held no contempt, merely lighthearted fondness as if he were entertaining a fantasy of a young child.

The fact that her once lover had chosen to bring the now King of Mirkwood to this spot spoke more than Fandas ever did or could. The doubt that Fandas was forced into the King's hands slipped like sand between her fingers, as did the small hope that it was an unhappy marriage - a marriage that she could sneak around or prevent with no remorse. But a truly happy, trusting marriage, she knew, were rare, and if Fandas trusted this elf enough to bring him to a spot that was soaked in the energy of their previous and old love, then perhaps she could….

She stole a look toward Fandas, the way her cheeks puffed with mild irritated annoyance, as she huffed and puffed about not being believed by her now husband. She hesitated briefly and wondered if this was the right thing to do, morally, to bring herself back into Fandas' life.

Perhaps it wasn't and she knew within her heart that it was selfish of her, but she took a step forward and off of the treetop that she had grown quite comfortably in.

* * *

Thranduil took a step back when she revealed herself, startled that he never heard her coming nor saw her before. A part of him cursed Fandas for convincing him that they should venture out without cover from their soldiers - though at the time, a moment alone in a more romantic part of Mirkwood that was left untouched by the evilness in its depths with his newlywed bride was too good of a thought to turn away.

But this woman, who lacked the ears of an elf yet didn't quite seem like one from Men, walked with more grace than any elf could dream of with an elegant, dangerous air about her. She emerged from the shadows as if she were once part of them. The darkness cascaded off of her like an old friend as light seemed to shine deep within her irises, as if someone lit an eternal flame in their depths. Her eyes spoke much of war and battle and lost love with an eerie otherworldly aura that unnerved him to his core. Her skin was fair and smooth like fresh marble and seemed as if nothing could break upon it, as if it were just as hard. Her hair wove down behind her, longer than he had seen any elf's. Her clothes spoke not of the beauty and grace of a woman of the court, but of a harden traveler in need of a brew, yet lacked any armor like he would have expected her to wear. Her fae made his own ache, with its old scars and large missing chunks as if something had bit straight through it or tried to swallow it whole, and it told a tale older than anything he could comprehend. Behind her back, hung a long sytche, an odd weapon of choice, yet a suiting one as the gleam from its blade seemed so sharp that he could cut himself from staring at it for too long.

She was nothing like he expected and everything he expected all at once. But whether her clothes matched her portraits, whether she was anything like he expected, didn't change who she was.

_Hinnorwen._

He was a king that bowed to none but her, dipping his head low in respect. He could feel his wife nudge him, not quite gently, in his side, as if she were amused that he would bow in the first place - or perhaps she was tickled to death that she just proved him wrong.  _Wrong_. By Valar, did she ever prove him wrong. He wondered why the legend would step forth before them. He got his answer when Hinnorwen barely spared him a glance as she took a step toward Fandas.

He wasn't sure what he expected to see, but there was something between the hero and his wife that told of their history. He wondered how deep that history went and what the nature of it was, but his answer came when Hinnorwen took Fandas hand with the ease of an old lover and kissed the back of it gently, causing a large flush to form on his wife's cheeks. Hinnorwen looked at him through the corners of her eyes, as if taunting him. But all he could feel was pride that he managed to wed the one elf that Hinnorwen herself had once taken.

"My lady," Fandas' voice wavered slightly, her heart beating wildly in her chest, "I would like you to meet my husband. King Thranduil, of Mirkwood."

Hinnorwen suddenly stood tall and cold, like an unwavering old oak, "Olorin told me of this."

Her voice was not close to what he expected her to sound of. It was deeper, darker, with an underlying tone of danger, like a primal predator waiting to strike. She took a step toward him and he stood his ground, reminding himself that he was a king that would not show fear, even to the likes of her even as she stalked around him, looking at him closely. When he still did not waver, a twinkle sparked in her eyes.

He tensed when she removed her weapon and it was merely inches from his throat. His shoulders went back and his head high. He is a king, he will not waver. He bowed once to her, for respect of her power, but it is not something that he will do again.

"Your wife is dear to me, new king," she taunted, "She is stronger than you can ever give her credit for and if you were to cross her, I'm sure she would strike before I ever could. But my ear is tuned to her heart, new king, and I know it's beat well. I have heard it shatter once and it is a sound I am not willing to hear again."

Fandas released the breath in her throat as Hinnorwen strapped her weapon back to her back and took a step away from her new husband. While unsure of what to make of it, Fandas couldn't help but feel a warmness that Hinnorwen had came not only to her wedding, but still cared enough of her to make sure that she would live nothing but a life of happiness. Something that she herself wasn't sure if she deserved, not for how she acted on in her youth and certainly not for the actions that she had encouraged her old love to take.

"Hinnorwen," Fandas spoke, her voice soft in the wind as she put a hand on her lady's shoulder.

She looked into the eyes that she could lose herself in, and an unspoken message passed between them - an apology, an acceptance, and a love. Hinnorwen relished in the touch, and tried not to dwell on hard it was for her to look away from Fandas' eyes.

"I have forgiven you, my dove," Hinnorwen answered, "Perhaps not myself, but you deserve a life of happiness with this elf, if that is what you wish."

Fandas stood close to the legendary warrior, too close to be merely friends, "It is my wish, my lady."

Hinnorwen bowed her head, signaling her understanding, Thranduil was glad that at least she understood for he surely did not. Something, however, told him that this would not be their last visit with the legendary Hinnorwen.


	11. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of Legolas starts with death.

The castle within Mirkwood stood tall and silent among the trees that shielded it from its enemies as much as it isolated them from their allies. It’s a silence that’s undisturbed as Dabria swept her way through the treeline. She kept a close eye on the shadows that seemed to follow her, the ones that reached too close to her and the castle for her comfort and grazed against her like death, promising of chaos and destruction.

She could practically smell the demons that lingered there, on the edge of the shadows, just waiting. Watching. Her fingers twitched and an itch formed beneath her breast at the thought. She wanted to go. She wanted to look it in the eyes as she runs toward it, showing no fear. But instead, her lips thin and she swallows thickly. Though that part of her life should be within the depths of her past, it lingers at her still. She told herself that she is not running away from it, but rather toward her first priority.

Not a single being was aware of her entrance to the castle nor the way she stalked through its halls with the ease of a well-known guest. Not a single wrong turn made, not a moment of hesitance. She walked with confidence and a shivering on the back of her neck that told her that the shadows were never far behind her. She could feel its darkness lurking outside like a warning and it crept along the castle’s walls to taunt her, tease her, to bring her back to it. She forced herself to walk a bit straighter, her legs a bit faster. This time, she walked not because her priorities laid ahead, but to escape the pain that was forming in her chest.

She rubbed absently at the collar of her shirt, a deep throbbing beneath her breast from a heart that does not beat. She kept herself strong and tall as she entered the familiar study, moving to her back. Her weapon went to a place against the wall by the door, within easy reach and never more than a few feet away before her hands moved toward the button on her cloak. It fell from her shoulders with grace as she swept it over a small chair by the door. The movement was natural, a force of habit, and spoke volumes of how often she found herself standing within that office. The others within the room looked up to her with small smiles, expecting her presence, but that quickly turned to concerned frowns.

“My lady,” Fandas stepped forward, “You look pained, is everything well?”

Dabria’s lips thinned as she eyed Fandas’ belly, swollen with child, “I should be the one asking you, my dove. You look as if you were to burst any moment.”

Thranduil's eyes soften as he placed a hand on Fandas’ shoulder, gazing fondly at her swollen belly. Dabria took a step forward, her eyes pleading for permission from Fandas. She didn’t breathe, yet it felt as if her breath was out of her lungs as her mind drifted back to memories of daisies and meadows. She hoped, she  _ prayed,  _ that this child would meet nothing but happiness in their future. She did not believe that her fae, her  _ heart _ , could take another child’s passing, whether it be hers or otherwise.

At Fandas’ nod, Dabria knelt down and placed a hand on the belly. She could feel life blooming there, thriving, waiting to join the world. Her lips turned into a faint smile as she looked up toward the beaming couple.

“He will be joining us soon, I am sure.”

“And what makes you so sure it is a boy,” Fandas’ eyes twinkled.

“With the size you are,” Dabria stood, quickly and smoothly, “I should also expect him to be quite the troublemaker.”

“Perhaps we were in good judgement to have you as our midwife then?”

Dabria’s lips thinned slightly at the comment, her doubt showing on her features if one knew where to look. Fandas knew - she always knew. It was something she spent a long time learning and something that was never forgotten.

“You will be a fine midwife. Imagine the great Hinnorwen helping me give birth? Why I could imagine nothing else that would be more of an honor.”   


Dabria accepted the compliment, along with a glass of wine, but doubts still lingered in the back of mind. Giving birth was nothing new to her. She knew its pain and its danger. She remembered the sensation of the world breaking around her as she brought a new life in it. But she also remembered the times she found herself working with the other women, before she became pregnant, helping along with other births as if it would somehow prepare her for it herself. 

She learned the hard way that nothing can truly prepare you for it - or the many things that could possibly go wrong.

* * *

A cairn of stones stood to mark another life she had failed to save. Yet a crying babe reminded her of the one that she saved. She stood in the background within the shadows, watching a ceremony pass before her that she could never take place in. She could hear Thranduil's voice leading others within a beautiful song that whistled through the trees. She could hear his pain, his grief, and her heart grew heavy as she held the babe closer to her chest.

Thankfully, he quiets down with the singing voice of his father and she wish that he could also hear the voice of his mother.  _ He.  _ A boy. Just like she imagined.  _ Legolas.  _ Thranduil had chosen the name. A simple one. Fandas would have liked it - she would have hated should Thranduil have chosen something flashy and showy…. She would have also adored her son. With Thranduil's bright locks and her sweet face, he was sure to grow up to be a strong, yet kind leader... 

Fandas had spoken to her, quite early within the pregnancy, that should anything happen to her to never shed a tear over her. She would be glad to hear that Dabria kept that promise, though it came quiet close as she whispered sweet words to the babe within her arms 

Thranduil had wanted him away from the funeral. He insisted that his son’s life did not to begin with anymore sorrow and that his presence at the banquet to be held soon would be enough to appease the people. Dabria disagreed and he never needed to know about her presence on the outskirts of the ceremony.

Dabria assumed that it was easy for Thranduil to convince them that Legolas needed rest and healing care after birth. Though she  _ knew _ that it was also easy for Thranduil to bring Legolas to the banquet as a miracle sign of good tidings, a way to bring people’s hope up after tending to the burial of their queen.

Another shiver went up her spine and she wrapped her cloak around herself to shield the babe from the darkness that still grazed against her, threatening to wrap itself around the ceremony. An uneasiness turned her gut, an instinct of danger coming. She glanced to the babe in her arms with determined certainty and against the creeping darkness, she made a promise to protect and raise the child as much as she could, as Fandas would have.


End file.
